


It Only Takes a Drop of Blood

by Lady_Gallatea_Ravenclaw



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Cancer, F/M, Gen, Harry Has Cancer, Terminal Illnesses, post GoF AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-05
Updated: 2018-09-05
Packaged: 2019-07-07 05:32:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 87,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15901875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Gallatea_Ravenclaw/pseuds/Lady_Gallatea_Ravenclaw
Summary: Sometimes, there are harder things than a psychopathic Dark Lord that a teenage wizard can face. Things like dying. Post GOF. Sick!Harry; Canon pairings.





	1. Summer

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Recnac Transfaerso](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/414648) by Celebony. 



> A/N: Hello all! This is the beginning of my It Only Takes a Drop of Blood story/novel-length fanfic. This was inspired by Celebony’s Recnac Transfaerso, but I am not attempting to copy her works. Hope you enjoy!
> 
> Disclaimer: This is the disclaimer for the entire fanfic. Harry Potter and all its contents belong to Ms. J.K. Rowling. I just like to play with her characters.

_This attic hasn’t been cleaned in at least fifteen years_ , Harry thought, coughing as dust flew into his mouth. The box he had been lifting shifted in his arms as objects moved around inside. He tried not to breathe in until he had set it down on the other side of the room.

He wheezed in a breath and wiped the trickling sweat off his brow. The heat of the room was stifling, as was the dirty air. When he had first come into the attic, he had started by opening all the windows to let most of the dust out, but at the moment, it seemed that he had been largely unsuccessful.

He pulled against the off-white, loose-fitting shirt. The sweat had rolled down his back and the itchiness of it was overwhelming his senses. The wet shirt clung unpleasantly and he grimaced.

Sighing, he grabbed another box and moved it to the larger pile on the other side of the attic. This one wasn’t as heavy but it was most certainly dustier than the former. He set it down with a heavy thump and rolled his shoulders painfully. He felt a tickling on the back of his hand and he looked down at it.

A small, nondescript spider was making its way up his arm. He brushed it off and went back to cleaning the attic. After scrubbing a stubborn stain under the south facing window, Harry sat back on his haunches and wiped his sweaty face with the back of his hand. He felt drenched and desperately wanted a shower.

He stood up, swaying as white spots lit in front of his eyes. He closed them and braced himself against the window, breathing in the fresh air. Once settled he trudged out the door, his worn trainers squeaking against the fresh wood polish on the floor. The misshapen, tottering piles of dusty boxes were organized into logical piles on one side of the attic, with plenty of room for more Dursley ‘heirlooms’.

Just as he was about to duck his head and crawl out of the attic hatch, his eyes strayed onto the one item in the attic that seemed out of place. He had eyed it earlier, when sorting. It was made of wood, almost like a square trunk without fastenings of any sort. It was locked with a padlock in the front and seemed very Mugglish; except for the carving on the top.

To any Muggle, it would seem like just a long scratch made by a negligent carpenter. But to Harry, the crevice looked long enough to fit a wand. He crouched next to the trunk and gingerly fingered the rough wood. Pulling out the wand stuck in his baggy jeans, Harry held it up to the crevice. Harry’s wand was nearly an inch longer. He sighed dejectedly and sat back on his heels, his ankles burning. His wand was clutched loosely in his hands and he hung his head. _The heat must be getting to me_.

Harry put his wand on the trunk and rubbed his stinging eyes. He was about to stand when he heard something. He looked at the trunk and saw his wand in the crevice. It fit perfectly.

The lock had clicked open on the mysterious trunk. Unable to hold back his curiosity, Harry lifted the heavy lid and looked inside.

The first thing he saw as the musty air hit him was a small bag. It was a velvet drawstring bag and its contents clinked together when he picked it up. Tentatively, Harry opened it and let the objects fall into his open hand. Cool metal caressed his palm. They were rings. He picked them up and peered at them. Golden in colour, one was sized for a man, the other for a woman. Harry’s breath caught in his chest.

It took a wand to open this trunk and he found a pair of wedding rings inside. His **parents’** wedding rings.

Harry held them reverently and looked at the papers underneath the rings. One stack of parchment was bound together with twine; it was addressed to him. Underneath that were two leather-bound books. The last thing in the trunk was a smooth, grey wand. Harry touched it carefully. It had belonged to one of his parents.

Glancing at all the items around him, Harry made a quick decision. His heels burning, he tucked the letters, books, wand and rings back into the trunk and shut the lid. The lock snapped and his wand popped cleanly out of the top, like it had never been stuck in the first place. The pressure on his shoulders eased with relief.

He pocketed the latter and grabbed the trunk, standing up slowly, his legs aching. Harry carefully stole down the stairs, glancing every which way for his relatives. Seeing no one, he dashed into his room and shut the door. His head turned wildly, trying to find the right place to hide it. Finally he shoved the trunk into the rickety wardrobe and shut the door. 

Wiping off his wet forehead, Harry went to wash up, the urge to paw through the trunk insatiable. He’d just have to wait until evening.

 

* * *

 

“BOY!”

Harry heard his uncle yelling up the stairs and knew that he had to move. He sighed heavily and got up, his muscles protesting every movement. Trudging down the stairs, Harry heard Uncle Vernon’s voice reverberate again in his skull.

Knowing that it was useless to complain, Harry took the ladle Aunt Petunia held out to him and started stirring the stew. He ignored the mutterings about how ungrateful he was and how they wished he would’ve died with his parents. _They aren’t worth it._ Instead, Harry thought about Monday and his next week of work.

The day after his relatives had picked him up from Kings Cross, Uncle Vernon had ordered him to get a job. Harry protested, feeding some line about Sirius, but his uncle turned a puce colour and his hand twitched. Just as he bolted out of the room, one of Aunt Petunia’s figurines hit the wall where his head had been.

After that, Harry had been reluctant to argue. While he wouldn’t see the pay for his work, at least the job would keep him away from the Dursleys and Dudley’s gang. So he had perused the newspaper for possible jobs. Most of the advertisements were looking for teenagers with resumes and references; but there was one position that didn’t.

A doctor at the local hospital wanted a young man to help him in his office for the summer. Harry had gone straight to the hospital and inquired about the position. The doctor, Jon Taylor, had agreed to hire him since no other applicants had come forward.

Monday would start Harry’s second week of working and he was already anticipating it. It was a relief to get away from his relatives for hours on end; the lack of receiving accusing looks and deriding comments was a bonus. And work kept his mind off of Voldemort and the war.

Harry rolled his shoulders and spooned the stew onto plates. Two large helpings, one medium and one small. Dudley was still restricted to his diet, which meant that Harry was as well. He set the table and carried the rest of the food over. The Dursleys were already sitting down and digging in. Harry refrained from rolling his eyes as he ate his dinner. Dudley gulped his down greedily and his piggy eyes watched Harry’s plate. The young wizard ate faster, hoping that he could finish soon and go up to his room.

Fortunately for Harry, the meal finished and the dishes were done, leaving him free to escape. He thundered up the stairs and plopped down on his creaky mattress. He briefly considered examining the trunk, but his exhaustion caught up with him and he fell asleep. 

 

* * *

 

 

Harry glared at the alarm beeping shrilly on the side table. The misshapen plastic told him that it was 4:30 in the morning and time for him to wake up. He struck the damned thing with his fist and rolled over in the scratchy sheets, trying to coax himself up.

Finally, unable to avoid it any longer, Harry swung his legs out of bed and got up with a small groan. The mattress was lumpy and many of the springs were broken, leaving him with a crick in his neck and knots in his back every morning. He stretched and yawned widely, feeling his muscles relax a bit when he was through. His extremities were tingling with warmth as he threw Dudley’s cast-offs on and stumbled downstairs.

Harry blinked his eyes, even though clearing his vision would do nothing to help him see in the dark. The sun had not yet risen so the whispering shadows covered every surface of the home. Harry felt the smooth wood of the cupboard as he tried fruitlessly to find the handle. Finally he felt cool metal and turned his hand. The door swung open and nearly hit Harry in the face; regardless, he pulled out a tray of chemicals and a roll of kitchen paper.

Quietly and with only a torch to light his way, Harry began to wash the windows. It was hard to see the spots he missed because Aunt Petunia wouldn’t let him shine the light directly at the windows. She was afraid that the neighbours would see. Once that task was complete, he moved on to dusting all the surfaces on the first floor and sweeping or mopping what he could.

Wiping the trickling sweat off his forehead, Harry looked through the clean windows at the sun just poking up beyond the horizon. It was six o’clock and he had to wash up before cooking breakfast. He stowed the cleaning items in the cupboard and quickly washed, smelling his hands to check that the chemicals were gone. He hated the strong, faux clean scent of disinfectants.

Harry pulled out Aunt Petunia’s favourite cast iron skillet. She wanted him to prepare the eggs, a rasher of bacon and toast with jam. Complying, Harry started cooking with an ease born from experience. Soon the warm smell of scrambled eggs, sizzling bacon and crispy buttered toast wafted around Harry. And from the thumps he heard upstairs, it was clear that the Dursleys had smelled it too.

He quickly munched on the last of a crisp and juicy bacon strip he had saved for himself, hoping that his aunt wouldn’t catch him eating. She thought it was unsanitary for him to eat as he cooked. Harry heard the clicking of her shoes before he saw her bony neck and head craning around the kitchen door.

She raised an eyebrow and barked at him. “Vernon will be down in a moment. Don’t burn anything!”

“Yes Aunt Petunia,” Harry droned dully as he scooped the eggs onto a platter. She disappeared as he manoeuvred a stack of buttered toast with jam onto the table.

The bacon sizzled and a burnt smell wafted gently from the pan. He rushed to it and scooped out the meat, checking it carefully. The edges were only slightly singed black and he sighed, cutting off the burnt edges. The Dursleys wouldn’t eat black bacon. Thankful that he hadn’t completely ruined breakfast, Harry cleaned up.

Once even the dishrag was hung, Harry left the kitchen with a slice of toast in hand. He trudged upstairs, careful not to get crumbs anywhere for fear of Aunt Petunia’s wrath, and changed into more presentable clothes. Time to go to work.

With Dudley’s old backpack over his shoulder and a cap on his head to cover the unwieldy hair, Harry trudged to the bus stop, his trainers catching uncomfortably on the cracks in the street. The Muggle bus stop was next to the park so he sat on the bench there, looking wistfully at the swings.

He liked sitting there, just to get time to think. It was soothing to rock back and forth, feeling the wind in his hair. He could almost imagine a sleek broom under him and the comfortable pressure of wind hitting his face.

Harry was startled out of his daydream when the blue bus screeched to a halt in front of him. He walked through the doors that had opened with a _swish_ and a gust of air, showing his pass to the driver. Uncle Vernon had turned purple when Harry asked for the money to buy a bus pass for the summer, but conceded that it was better than having to drive Harry or hear the neighbours talk if they saw him walking to the city and back every day.

He sat down on a squeaky leather seat and rolled his aching shoulders. The bus would take another hour to get to the city, so he would have to just sit there until then. Harry wished he could read one of his school books, but his relatives wouldn’t stand for it at all. So he was left to boredom. He let his gaze travel to the scenery outside and his mind wander.

 

* * *

 

 The bus screeched and tossed Harry forward. He shook himself and looked around; it was his stop. Getting out on shaky legs, he nodded at the driver and ambled to the hospital, his feet feeling heavy with every step he took. His head was in a fog and he tried to shake himself out of the daze.

People were walking everywhere, bumping into each other and chatting constantly. It was a pleasant hum that soothed Harry. He walked to the hospital and made to open the door when it did so automatically. He stopped and stared for a moment before remembering: he was in the Muggle world and the doors could open by themselves.

Harry shook his head in consternation and walked through. He really had been in the magical world for too long.

The teen took the lift up to the sixth floor, watching Muggles enter and exit the whirring contraption. When it opened with a _ding_ at his floor, Harry got off and walked to Taylor’s office, his trainers squeaking against the clean marble.

The ward was pure silence and smelled strongly of disinfectant. Harry was reminded of the Hogwarts Hospital Wing every time he entered the hall. It was just as white and quiet.

Harry entered Taylor’s office and set his bag down in a corner. The man wasn’t in, likely seeing patients, so he started on the filing and tidying. Taylor’s former assistant was sacked two months before for laundering money. As a result, most of the paperwork and items in the office were in disarray and it was up to Harry to neaten it all.

He couldn’t help thinking that the job was more suited for Hermione than for him. Harry could just see her puttering around like Mrs. Weasley in a kitchen, moving papers into boxes and looking hungrily at the books all around the office. He imagined Ron shaking his head at her fervour and avoiding the work all together.

Harry desperately wished he could talk to them. It felt like ages since he had seen them, even though it had only been little more than a week. He sighed and looked around the office. There was much work to be done.

He had already delivered and sorted the patient files downstairs. He now had to prepare the files from the past year and deliver them. Taylor was not organized in the slightest. He seemed quite absentminded, actually.

Harry looked up when a man walked in. He was in his forties, with dark blond hair and sharp blue eyes. Taylor was tall and had crooked frames that rested on the bridge of his nose. The usually neat hair was tousled and a file was in his hands.

“Hello sir,” Harry said quietly, turning back to his work. He felt like McGonagall had caught him sleeping in class.

Taylor grunted, sitting down at his desk. He did not even look up to acknowledge Harry as he focused on the papers in front of him. A pencil was stuck behind his ear and a pen was resting in his fingers.

Harry furrowed his brow and tried to read over Taylor’s shoulder, his curiosity getting the better of him. The words were all very long and complicated so he couldn’t make out the exact problem, but it seemed as if the patient’s medication had stopped working.

Taylor tapped his pen against the desk in thought and Harry turned around, trying to pretend like he was retrieving something from the bookcase. He could smell the mustiness of the books; they hadn’t been used recently.

“Boy,” Taylor spoke suddenly, making Harry jump. “Get me Halperin’s _Paediatric Radiation Oncology_. The second edition.”

Harry looked at the man and nodded. Darting to the bookshelves, he skimmed the texts until he found the right book. He pulled it out and put it in Taylor’s waiting hand. “There you go sir,” he said quietly.

Taylor grunted and began skimming the text. Harry rolled his eyes and went back to work. It was like researching with Hermione.

The two worked in silence until the rumbling of Harry’s stomach pervaded the room. Taylor looked up, confused, until he saw the teen blush and mumble an apology. The man shook his head.

“Nonsense. Go eat,” he ordered kindly.

Harry nodded slowly. “Sir… would you like to join me?” he offered carefully. Taylor didn’t look like he wanted to be disturbed, but since he already had been…

Taylor looked up at the teenager and thought for a moment. He sighed and got up. “Alright. I can’t seem to figure this out anyway. Maybe some food will help,” he reasoned aloud.

Harry smiled and grabbed his bag. He had already packed something since his relatives didn’t want to waste money at the refectory.

Taylor and Harry took the lift to the staff refectory, a small room that was just as white as the rest of the hospital. Harry’s nose perked up at the smell of hot soups and juicy sandwiches. He reluctantly sat down at a table and pulled out his lunch sack. Taylor had opted for buying tomato soup, bread and fruit. Harry focused on eating his baloney on rye, imagining that he was eating treacle tart instead.

The doctor eyed the thin teen in front of him and tried not to be terribly suspicious. But really, what sort of teenage boy only ate a sandwich for lunch. When Potter took another bite, he eyed a round bruise on his left arm. It looked fresh.

Taylor shook off his worry. He was just overreacting. The boy was fine. He soon finished his soup and stood, seeing that the boy was done as well.

“Back to work,” he declared, waiting for Potter to stand as well.

Harry got up and nodded at Taylor. He was a good man, just not friendly. Harry figured that he had heard the rumours about the insane and incurably criminal Potter boy; that would be enough to deter anyone from being kind.

He rolled his right shoulder as a pulling sensation originated from the muscles under his shoulders and neck. Wincing slightly, Harry followed Taylor into the lift and waited until they reached the sixth floor.

Taylor glanced at the boy standing next to him. He was short and thin, but he was sure that the boy was in for a growth spurt soon. He was due one, at least. The boy’s clothes hung off him slightly and he had the dark bags of exhaustion under his eyes. Potter’s voice had already changed and he was pale; not into sports then. The glasses the boy wore were heavily duck taped and slightly bent.

The doctor’s brow furrowed. All the apparent signs were pointing to a depression of sorts and physical beatings of some kind. Taylor hoped that the glasses and bruise were simply results of bullies or attacking gangs, but the weight loss and exhaustion belied other reasons. He prayed that he didn’t have an abuse case on his hands; that would get messy.

The lift dropped the two off at their floor and Taylor eyed Potter’s gait. His movement was odd, like he was rolling side to side. The doctor’s eyes narrowed. There was more to this than met the eye. 

 

* * *

 

 

Harry looked up from the file he was reading to see Taylor staring at him again. The doctor’s eyes quickly trailed away but when Harry looked down, the hair on the back of his neck rose; someone was watching him.

He really hated it when people gazed dumbly at him, especially when their eyes flickered up to his scar. Harry hoped that Taylor’s curiosity had nothing to do with the magical world. He looked up again and saw the doctor’s eyes blink away.

Taylor nearly blushed when the Potter boy caught him staring again. He really ought to go back to helping his patients instead of focusing on the curious puzzle that was Harry Potter. But he couldn’t seem to get his mind off the odd things he had witnessed. The bruises,  weight loss, exhaustion and uneven gait…. It had to be a medical problem!

Finally, he couldn’t contain himself. “Potter, stand up,” he said abruptly.

Harry rose an eyebrow and his shoulders tensed uncomfortably. He could feel the hair on the back of his neck rise up. When Taylor looked impatient, Harry stood on legs that felt weak under him and dropped the papers in his chair.

Taylor crossed the distance between them in two strides and looked him over. Harry felt like Britain’s newest Naturist.

“What?” Harry asked, backing away from the doctor. “What are you doing?”

“Show me your arms,” Taylor said curtly, reaching out for them.

Hesitantly, the boy held them up. Taylor pushed back the sleeves and examined them. They were riddled with bruises.

“Have you seen these before?” the doctor asked, looking through his spectacles. He lightly touched a bruise and made a discontented noise.

“No!” Harry said defensively. “It was dark when I dressed this morning. I didn’t see anything. And they weren’t there last night either.”

He peered at his arms, completely puzzled. The bruises didn’t hurt – not like the ones he got from Dudley and his gang – and Harry had no recollection of being injured recently. Moreover, the bruises were all fresh; they couldn’t have been more than ten hours old.

“Potter, I want you to go see your physician,” Taylor said. “Make an appointment for tomorrow or the day after. I’ll give you the time off, but by God, get this checked.”

Harry was dumbfounded, but nodded automatically. “Yeah, of course,” he said quietly. He pushed his sleeves down. “Thanks.”

Taylor nodded curtly and strode back to his desk. Harry went back to work, but couldn’t concentrate. Thoughts raced around in his head, jumping from Taylor’s interest to the order to see a doctor.

His back ached with tension and he rolled his shoulders to relieve the pressure. He tried to focus his attention on arranging the files and marginally succeeded.

Eventually it was time to return to Privet Drive, so Harry bid the doctor farewell and walked out the door, backpack over his shoulder. His trainers squeaked against the floor and he shuddered at the silence surrounding him.

Harry entered the lift and let it carry him to the first floor. He left the building, ignoring the automatic doors and the various people swarming around him, and went to the bus stop. The blue bus screeched to a stop and Harry trudged up the steps. He greeted the driver and plopped into a seat.

His head resting wearily against the window, Harry dozed. An old lady sat in the seat next to him and placed her bright purple handbag between them. When Harry’s stop arrived, he mumbled an apology and squeezed past her to get off the bus. The woman didn’t say anything; she just gave him a toothless smile.

Harry trudged off the bus and then proceeded to walk to Privet Drive. His limbs were heavy and he yawned quite a few times before he reached the door. Letting himself in, he went to his room and left his backpack and trainers on the floor. He looked longingly at the bed, but he knew that his aunt would call him down to make dinner any minute.

Harry yawned widely and stretched. He felt blood rush into his arms, legs and back, making him feel more awake than he was. Giving up, Harry left the room and went downstairs to cook dinner.

 

* * *

 

The door opened in the smallest bedroom and Harry entered, dead on his feet. He shrugged off his shirt, the fibers feeling uncomfortable against his oversensitive skin. He fell into bed, his glasses in his hand and his eyes closed. Harry's body relaxed and his breathing evened out. He was asleep.

 


	2. The Appointment

Harry stirred as the dawn light hit his face. He blearily blinked, wiped the gummy crust from his eyes and sat up. He opened his mouth wide and yawned, stretching. His arms came down softly and a smile graced his face. It had been the best night’s sleep he had had for as long as he could remember. He felt relaxed and his back didn’t hurt terribly.

Tousling his hair, Harry made his way to the shower and quickly freshened up. After towelling his crow’s nest dry, he pulled out a shirt and trousers from his wardrobe. Harry pulled them on and his eyes fell on the trunk.

He got down on his knees and pulled it out of the wardrobe. Harry put his wand into the eleven-inch crevice and lifted the lid. The rusty hinges creaked and the teen winced, wishing that the trunk would be quieter.

First, Harry pulled out his parents’ rings and fingered the cold metal reverently. They were polished a smooth gold and gleamed softly in the daylight. The bigger ring, obviously his father’s, could easily fit on Harry’s own ring finger. His mother’s ring was dainty and smaller; it could barely slide around his large fingers.

Harry set them aside carefully and lifted the grey wand out of the trunk. He wondered why there was only one and not two. The wand was well polished and taken care of. Harry also put that to the side and took out the stack of parchment. He removed the twine and picked up the first one. It was a letter.

Harry opened the parchment with shaking hands and fingered the elegantly scrawled script. The letter was dated 24 October 1981. A week before his parents died.

_Harry,_

_I assume, if you are reading this that I died when you were very young. I know that you probably think of Sirius as your dad, and I don’t blame you for that. He is my brother and I trust him to raise you well._

_You are likely seventeen by now. An adult. I can’t believe how you’ve grown, Harry. I still remember the day you were born… your hand was about the size of a sickle. I’m writing this letter by your cot and you are sucking on a dummy; your hand is much bigger now!_

_I know you are wondering why I chose to leave this trunk at your Aunt Petunia’s of all places. Well, I knew it would be safe. No one really knows that your mother even had a sister, let alone such a horrid Muggle as Petunia Dursley. I suppose I shouldn’t bad-mouth your aunt, but she really is… well, you’ve met her, so I don’t have to explain, do I?_

_In this trunk, I’ve enclosed letters for you, your mother’s diaries, her wand and our wedding rings. If I died when you were very young, there is probably something you don’t know about your mother, because I never had a chance to tell you. Not to worry, it’s all in this trunk._

_And please, when you find out the truth, tell Sirius. I know he won’t want to hear it at first, but it’s important that he knows._

_Harry, I love you so incredibly much. I wish I were there to see you grow up and become a man, and I know your mother feels the same way. I hope and pray that we make it through this war with each other, but I know in my heart that our chances are slim._

_I know that you are a wonderful person and that you have and will make me proud every single day, just because you are Harry and you are my son._

_Be true to yourself and be true to your heart. I want you to have a good and long life. Go to school, get a job and a girl, have a family; and most of all, be happy._

_I have never been as blessed or as proud as the day I first held you in my arms._

_I love you son,  
Dad_

Harry smoothed down the corners of the letter and his fingers trembled. He couldn’t put it down. Harry fixed his fogging glasses, blinked furiously and tied the bundle together again. He wanted to read more, but he had to leave for the bus soon.

Harry tucked the trunk back into the wardrobe and sighed. He went to the bathroom and washed his face, feeling fresher. And finally, he bounded down the staircase, grabbed food from the kitchen and dashed out the door.

He had to go to the surgery.   


* * *

 

 

The bus trip to the hospital felt like an eternity to the young teen. His fingers twitched nervously and he frequently jumped and fidgeted in his seat. The bus was devoid of life—even the conductor looked half-dead—and Harry felt like he was on a death march.

When the bus rolled to a squeaky stop outside the hospital, Harry got down, his mouth drying out. He nodded shakily to the driver and looked up at the tall building. Never before had it seemed so intimidating.

Swallowing thickly, Harry went inside and took the lift to the fourth floor rather than the sixth. The lift spit him out with two anxious mothers and their crying and shouting children and he trudged to the front desk, like a man heading to the gallows.

The bored receptionist was painting her nails with bright red nail polish and was smacking her chewing gum every few minutes.

“Hello miss,” Harry said quietly, leaning over the desk. “I’m here for an appointment with Doctor Watson.”

The woman tapped her finger on the paper in front of him. “Sign your name and take a seat. He will be with you momentarily,” she droned.

Harry scribbled his name and the date on the line and sat down in a lone chair. 

The room was brightly lit and very full of colour. Many children were playing with the toys in the corner, or sitting quietly in their parent’s laps. Harry played with his fingers as he waited, unwilling to pick up one of the flashy tabloids next to him. He swallowed nervously and eyed the door.

After what seemed like ages, a nurse came to the door and called out his name. Harry, flattening his fringe all the while, darted past her, and waited until she shut the door. The older woman walked slowly and led him to a weighing scale.

“Remove your shoes first,” she reminded in a stern tone. Harry toed off his shoes and climbed up, feeling the slight movement of the pressure pad beneath his feet as he stood there. She moved the dials along the bridge almost too fast for him to read the result but her frown as she wrote the number down was quite clear.

Their next stop was a ruler stuck to the wall. She had him turn around and stand against it, heels touching the baseboards and his shoulders back. The nurse had to flatten his hair a little to get the proper measurement; Harry felt a flush of pride when he looked and saw that he’d grown a little since last year.

The teen then followed her to an empty examination room. The nurse bustled to the side table and unceremoniously stuck a thermometer in his mouth. Harry hastily adjusted the grip and held it with two fingers to keep the glass stick from falling out of place. As he waited, the nurse grabbed a stethoscope and a thick cuff.

She wrapped the cuff around his bicep snugly. A tube hung off it with a rubber ball at the end. Then the cold sensation of her stethoscope pressed into the crook of his elbow. Her other hand grabbed the rubber ball on the cuff and squeezed it. As she squeezed, the cuff expanded and tightened. Soon, the pressure became painful. Just before he could let out a complaint, the damn thing was released and the cloth relaxed.

The nurse ignored him and stared intently at the dial on the cuff. Finally she removed her stethoscope and the blood pressure cuff. She wrote down a few numbers on her clipboard and then took the thermometer from Harry’s mouth. She had to tilt the thing into the air and Harry couldn’t tell what the reading was from his position. The nurse frowned and wrote another number down.

“Alright, that’s it for now,” she said abruptly. “Doctor Watson will be with you shortly.” And she left him there to wait for the doctor.

Harry’s foot tapped nervously and the sound echoed. The room was small and very stark of colour or life. The doctor had one painting put up; it was of a woman drowning in a lake. Harry swallowed through a lump in his throat. He felt flushed and sweaty, twitching with irrepressible energy. His clothes felt uncomfortable against his skin and he watched the clock intently.

At last the door creaked open and a bald man with dark eyes walked in. He was wearing a white coat and carried the clipboard from before. Harry sat up straighter and smiled weakly, although his grin probably looked more like a grimace.

“Hello Harry!” Dr. Watson greeted. “It has been a while since we’ve seen each other. You’ve grown a lot.”

“Yes, sir,” said Harry thickly as he shook the man’s hand. He hesitantly added, “I was told by my employer, Dr. Taylor, to come for an exam.”

“Oh?” Dr. Watson said, raising an eyebrow. “Well let’s just have a look, shall we?” He grabbed his stethoscope and nodded to Harry’s chest. “Please remove your shirt Harry.”

The teen pulled it over his head, shivering as cool air brushed his now bare chest, and set it to the side. Watson’s eyebrows shot up as he saw the unsightly bruises on Harry’s arms. The latter ducked his head and blushed in shame, but waited for the doctor to finish his exams.

“Well, your breathing and heart seems to be normal,” Watson said, writing on the clipboard. He turned to Harry. “Your blood pressure is low, but still in the normal range. Your temperature, on the other hand, is slightly elevated. My records say that you generally have an average temperature of 36.8 degrees, and yours is currently 37.5.”

Harry looked down at his trainers and worried the bottom of his lip. What did that mean? A shadow fell over him and he looked up to see Watson right in front of him, his gloved hands reaching out to Harry’s face.

He nearly jumped, but Watson gently placed his hands against Harry’s neck. “I’m checking your glands to see if they are swollen,” he said calmly. After a moment he stepped back, “There is some swelling there. Did you fall ill recently? Sneezing, sore throat or coughing? Have you been feeling tired?”

Harry shook his head. “I haven’t been sleeping well,” Harry admitted, “but I haven’t felt ill.”

Watson nodded, writing that down. “And those bruises. How did you get them?” he asked, touching them carefully.

“I don’t know, sir,” Harry said. “I didn’t notice them until Dr. Taylor pointed it out yesterday. They weren’t there the night before.”

“Do they hurt?” Watson asked, pressing one.

“No,” Harry said, shaking his head.

The doctor hummed speculatively and wrote on his chart. He looked up at Harry. “I’m going to have a nurse draw some blood and check it out, Harry,” he said, setting the clipboard aside. “You’ve eaten today, right?” At Harry’s nod, he smiled. “Good. If you don’t have any questions, I’ll just have someone come by in a few minutes.”

Harry shook his head, still stunned by this whole situation.

“Alright,” Watson said. “It was good seeing you Harry.”

“You too,” the teen said as the doctor left.

Harry waited just a minute or two before the same nurse came in wheeling a small tray covered in blue gauze. Laid out on it was a long needle with a plastic piece attached to it and two glass vials. She also had a long rubber piece, a cotton swab and a brown bottle.

Harry swallowed thickly, looking at the needle, and felt more flushed and sweaty as she wrapped the rubber around his arm. The cotton swab was dipped into the bottle and then the nurse wiped the crook of Harry’s elbow with it. Harry cleared his throat and drew a shaky breath. He felt inexplicably nervous and terrified.

Harry looked away just before she stuck the needle in his arm. It stung painfully and he felt a tug as the nurse worked around his arm. The rubber was pulled off and soon she had filled her vials and removed the needle. She had Harry put a cotton swab on the wound and close his elbow.

Before too long, Harry had a bandage wrapped around his arm and the vials were stored away. He felt his sore muscles relax a little more and let out a deep breath. The nurse smiled thinly at him gave him a reassuring nod.

“Go to the laboratory on the third floor to get your results tomorrow,” she said.

Harry nodded and walked out the door, down the hall and through the door to the waiting room. He trudged to the lift and called for it. He hated hospitals.   


* * *

 

 

The lift chimed and a teenage boy stepped out of the machine. He was dressed in ragged but clean clothes and a hat covered his wild hair and illustrious scar. The he walked with a dejected air, as if all the world’s ills were on his shoulders. A breathy sigh escaped his lips as he stood in front of the receptionist.

“Miss?” he said quietly, to get her attention. “I’m here on a recommendation from Dr. Watson.”

The red-haired woman looked up at him over her spectacles. “Yes, and whom are you seeing?”

Harry wet his dry lips and gave her the crumpled slip of Muggle paper. “Err… Dr. Taylor.”  


* * *

 

 

The results from Harry’s blood test had not been positive. That was all he knew.

When he went to the laboratory for his results on Tuesday, the nurse there had given him a piece of Muggle paper and told him to go upstairs to the sixth floor and ask for Dr. Taylor. He had then shooed the teenager off and sent Harry on his merry way.

So now, Harry was sitting on one of those Muggle examining beds, bloody uncomfortable as they were, waiting for Taylor to see him.

The door creaked open and said doctor walked in, absentmindedly looking at the file in his hands, muttering to himself.

Taylor spoke, still not looking up. “My name is Dr. Taylor and I will be your child’s attending physician for the duration of our time together.” At last he looked up and met Harry’s eyes. “Potter?”

“Hello,” Harry said with a nod to the man.

He glanced around at the otherwise empty room. “Are you alone?” he asked. “Where are your guardians?”

Harry’s stomach dropped. He’d totally forgotten that he’d need his uncle to sign off something like this. At Hogwarts he never needed permission for this sort of thing. “Erm, well, you see, my relatives…they’re busy and…”

 “This is your health, boy; I can hardly imagine anything more important than that. And besides, I need to meet with your guardians to arrange everything, as you are still very much underage and under their care.”

His uncle would never allow him treatment. He’d come up with some bull about not wanting to spend good money on him and Harry would die. He knew it. His mouth went dry at the thought.

He scrambled for something--anything--the doctor would believe. “Well, see they have a lot going on,” Harry said, his fingers clenching in his sweaty palms. His eyes were wild and his breathing short. Pressure was building in his ears, “and they said it was fine for you to carry on without them. They know I’m old enough to take care of myself.”

Suddenly the pressure cracked and Harry could feel it all just disappear in that moment. At the same time, a dazed, gormless look fell over Taylor’s face.

“Yes, yes…” Taylor’s voice trailed off as he glanced at nothing. “Quite right. Old enough to take care of yourself.” His gaze drifted down to the chart and he wrote something down on it. “Best make a note of that.”

He knew in that moment that he’d accidentally cast magic on his doctor. The dazed look, suddenly agreeing with him on a defined legal matter… He’d Confunded a Muggle. Normally he’d feel more than a bit guilty for using magic on a Muggle who didn’t deserve it, but considering the circumstances, Harry was willing to simply let it go. The magic had already been done.

“Er, so, what were my results?”

The dazed look started to fade and Taylor shook his head slightly, glancing down at the file. “Right.” He put down the file, rested his glasses on top of it and sat on a stool facing Harry. “Do you know why you are here?”

Harry shook his head, leaning forward slightly in his curiousity, even though it put him off balance.

“Your lab results came back with a high white blood cell count. Much higher than normal. Dr. Watson considered your age, the bruises, fever, the labs and the fact that you are grossly underweight, before sending you to me. All of your symptoms could indicate many possible ailments, but the one that predominantly rings out is leukaemia.”

Harry swallowed through a lump in his dry throat. He knew that word. He had learned it on his very first day of work. Leukaemia meant cancer. He knew what cancer was.

Taylor looked reassuringly at his patient. “For now, this is only a guess. To make sure, I’m going to order a bone marrow test. We’ll place a large needle into your hipbone to collect a sample of the cells there. If that comes out positive, then we’ll get a spinal tap test to give me some more information on how to help you,” he said with an even tone. “If the test proves false, then you’ll probably be moved to a diagnostician, who can find out exactly what’s wrong.”

Harry nodded shakily and drew in a rattling breath. He felt like there were Dementors surrounding him, freezing his innards. Then suddenly, warm hands chased away the cold presence and brought him to the present. Taylor was looking into his face and talking to him, his hands on Harry’s shoulders.

The doctor looked like he was awaiting a response, so Harry nodded blankly.

Taylor could see that his patient and employee was in shock, so he took the boy to his office and served him a cup of tea.

Harry slowly became aware of his surroundings as he sipped the warm liquid clenched between his fists. A blanket covered his shoulders and he felt less of the mounting pressure than before. Taylor was sitting across from him with his own cup of tea.

“Feeling better?” the older man asked with a raised eyebrow. Harry nodded and murmured his thanks. The other shrugged it off. “When you’ve finished your tea, you are free to go. Get some rest and I’ll see you in the morning. Make sure you come on an empty stomach for the bone marrow extraction. You may leave after its completion.”

Harry looked up with wide eyes, wondering when he decided this, but after a moment realized that he had agreed to it when he wasn’t paying attention. He emptied his cup and put down the blanket. Lost in his thoughts, he trudged back to the lift and called it. He had much to think about tonight.

 

* * *

 

  
Harry lay on his back, staring up at the blank ceiling before him. When he had finished washing up from dinner, his aunt had finally let him retire. And while he enjoyed the chance to rest, it meant that he had nothing to occupy him any longer.

He pressed his hands against his temples and groaned.

Cancer! He could hear Ron’s voice saying words that would have led to Mrs. Weasley putting soap in his mouth.

Harry smiled weakly as imaginary Hermione scolded imaginary Ron. Hermione. Harry knew what she would say if he told her. She’d go ballistic. She might even start crying!

He didn’t know what to do. He had known, since entering Hogwarts, that he might die before reaching majority. But Harry hadn’t imagined that he would die like this. And he didn’t want to. From being at the hospital, he knew that cancer wasn’t a death sentence; but how could an ill Boy-Who-Lived fight against Voldemort?

How could he survive again if he was dying? And if he died, would Voldemort go after his friends? What would happen to them?

Harry swallowed past a lump in his throat. He felt the icy chill again that pierced through his bones and heart. He didn’t want to die. He couldn’t! Not yet.

Hands shaking, he pushed himself into a sitting position, hearing the bed creak. Feeling the pressure inside of him growing, he shook his head forcefully and tried to think other, happier, thoughts.

Rolling off the bed, Harry stumbled in the dim light to the wardrobe. The trunk soon lay in front of him and he set his wand eagerly into the crevice. First, he took a diary and moved closer to the desk lamp. Its light radiated over his shoulder as he read the scrawling handwriting that was his mother’s.

_1 st September, 1971_

_My first night at Hogwarts! Severus was right… the castle is beautiful. The ceiling in the Great Hall is charmed to look like the sky outside and tonight we could see all the stars!_

_When we got off the train, the man shouting for first years took us to the castle. We walked along this path and then got in boats. I was with Severus and two other boys. I was very nervous but then we saw the castle! It looked so pretty with all the lights and everything against the sky. We met Professor McGonagall in the Entrance Hall, and she took us to the Great Hall._

_There was a hat on a stool and as the professor read our names, we sat on the stool and a hat sorted us! I got into Gryffindor, which made Severus upset, and he got into Slytherin, just like he wanted. I didn’t want to be in Slytherin but I’m also sad that we aren’t together anymore. I hope we can still be friends!  
Those mean boys from the train are in my house too. Potter and Black, I think their names were. They were so mean to Sev… I hope they don’t give him trouble this year. _

_Golly, it’s late! I must get to bed because classes start tomorrow. I can’t wait to get started with magic._

_Love,  
Lily_

His mum had been friends with Snape? When had that happened? Harry was shocked. His mother hated his father and was best friends with his hated Potions professor. Would wonders never cease?

His eyes drifted lower, to the bottom of the page. Harry traced the letters of his mother’s name and smiled lightly. He wrote his _y_ ’s the same way she had! He sat there all night, reading through the pages of his mum’s diary, feeling comforted, as if she were sitting there next to him.

 

* * *

  


The morning dawned, showing a very tired Harry Potter. His mind had been restless when he tried to sleep, so he had spent most of the evening reading his mum’s diary. All too soon, he found himself doing his chores and preparing breakfast. Once the table was laden with food and his relatives were on their way down, Harry stole out of the house and down to the bus stop.

Harry’s stomach rumbled uncomfortably as he watched the sleepy residents of Privet Drive wake up. Most of the neighbours that were awake scowled at him, as if he were causing trouble by walking down the street. Harry rolled his eyes and continued on his way. They were as bad as the Dursleys.

The bus screeched to a stop in front of him just as Harry arrived at the bench. Getting on, he flashed his card to the conductor and found a seat in the middle. The only other person on the vehicle was a man who looked—and smelled—like he hadn’t showered in thirty years. Harry sat far away from him and looked out the window. The world around him dulled as he lost himself in his thoughts.

Before long, the bus stopped in front of the hospital. Harry disembarked and walked straight to Taylor’s office, where the man was waiting for him.

“Potter,” he said in greeting. He shook the boy’s hand a tad formally. He looked around the empty room. “Is anyone else joining us?”

Harry shook his head. “No sir,” he said. “Just me.” He really hoped the Confundus Charm was long-lasting or this could end up getting very messy.

Taylor hesitated a moment before that dazed look from yesterday fell over his features. “Right, yes,” he said. “Well, come on then.”

Harry let out the breath he’d been holding and followed the doctor out of the office, down the lift and into the theatre. A few people were milling about and all sorts of instruments were set up, including a very large needle. Harry swallowed with an audible gulp. He didn’t like needles.

A nurse passed him a hospital gown and told him to change. Harry was soon wearing nothing but the gown and his pants. Taylor then had him lay on his front and pull down his pants so his hips and buttocks were exposed.

Harry pillowed his red face in his arms as the doctor felt with cold hands along the bone in his hips. The hands moved away and he felt something cold and wet touch his skin. He bit his lip in anticipation and felt a light needle prick his skin. He felt a stinging sensation there, but soon that area grew numb.

Taylor moved away again and Harry could just sense the man picking up the large needle. Harry clenched his fists and took a deep breath.

“Relax Potter,” Taylor said calmly. Harry let out his breath and tried to think about something other than the very large needle approaching his body.

Suddenly, Harry felt pain flare up in his hip. He tried not to move as Taylor continued his work. He soon felt an uncomfortable pull, a release and then another sharp pressure before the needle was taken out. Harry released a heavy breath in relief. Taylor pressed a cloth on top of his wound and held it there. Harry let his head fall into his hands and breathed deeply. It was over.

Harry grew restless as the minutes ticked by and was relieved when the wound was dressed.

“Alright, go ahead and get dressed Potter,” Taylor said from behind him.

When he sat up and glanced over his shoulder, both men had their backs to him. The nurse was packaging something and Taylor was removing his gloves and surgical gown. Harry took off his own gown and put on his clothes, being careful around his dressing. When he turned to look at them, Taylor was waiting for him.

“We should get the results as soon as the lab can process the marrow. Don’t get the wound wet for about 24 hours. Then you may change the bandage. If it begins to swell or bleed heavily, call the hospital. If your temperature shoots up, call the hospital. Avoid heavy exercise and activity for 24 hours. You are free to leave and I will see you tomorrow,” Taylor said, turning to Harry.

“Right,” Harry said, hoping that he remembered all that. “Thanks.” He offered a smile to the nurse, who returned it, and Taylor gave him a dismissive nod. Harry took his cue to leave.  


* * *

 

 

When Harry arrived at the Dursley home, all was quiet. He let himself in and found a note in the kitchen.

_We have gone out for dinner. Don’t touch anything!_

Harry snorted. At least he wasn’t doing chores. He ate the cold sandwich left out for him and drank a glass of water. After washing up, he trudged upstairs, revelling in the silence.

Gingerly, he lay down on his bed, trying not to jostle his aching wound. He sighed and put his glasses aside. Hedwig was still at Ron’s, so he didn’t even have her company in the still night. Closing his eyes, he hoped that he would be able to sleep peacefully until morning. He snorted as he started to drift off. He was never that lucky.  


* * *

 

 

Harry was flying through the air, soaring around the Quidditch pitch. He could barely see the stands from his height. A flash of gold darted across his vision and he followed it, reaching out for the ball with wings. But when grabbed for it, the scene changed. His broom was gone and he was on the ground again, in front of a dark manor; one he had seen before.

He picked his way into the dilapidated house and up the stairs, when he found the ground floor empty. The first floor was quiet, but a light shined from underneath a doorway. Harry crouched outside the room and tried to listen for voices.

“Master,” a man spoke from inside the gloom. “The prophecy is well guarded. The Unspeakables will not disclose its location.”

“Then make them!” Voldemort’s high-pitched voice screamed. “Get me that prophecy. And do it quickly Lucius… before I lose my patience.”

“Yes, my Lord,” Malfoy said hurriedly. “As you wish, my Lord.”

“Now… Severus. What news do you have of the old fool and his Order?” the Dark Lord demanded in a silky tone.

The oily voice of Snape rang out from the room. “Dumbledore is gathering Aurors and Ministry workers. He has selected a location for his headquarters and put the Fidelius Charm on it. I am not able to give its position, as he is the Secret Keeper himself. He is moving the Order and Potter’s friends to the headquarters within the week,” he said.

Harry glared at Snape. His friends would be in danger because of that bastard! He tried to hear more, but the voices dropped to whispers. However, when he moved forward to listen better, a rushing sound filled his ears. Harry woke up in his bed, breathing heavily.

What was the prophecy that Voldemort wanted? And why did Dumbledore trust Snape so much, when he was clearly a traitor?

Looking at the clock, Harry saw that it was still the middle of the night. Sighing, he laid back down, hoping to go back to sleep. He was tired and he just wanted to leave the pain of the last few days behind him.

As the minutes passed, Harry realized that he was wide-awake and he wasn’t going to sleep any time soon. So instead of staring at the wall, he pulled out his mum’s diary and continued reading. The flashlight in his hand illuminated the pages filled with his mother’s script.

_7 th January, 1975_

_That blasted James Potter asked me to go to Hogsmeade with him again! How many times do I need to reject him before he takes a hint?_

_Black, Potter, Lupin and Pettigrew turned Severus into a pink partridge yet again over the holidays. I tried to console him, but he just scowled at me. And really, what can I say when those pompous, arrogant, bestial Marauders won’t leave him alone!_

_I finished the last of my homework last night, so I was able to spend the entire day with Severus by the lake. We had such fun! I was able to make him laugh. He hasn’t done that since before third year._

_I fear that he is settling in with the wrong crowd. How can he not, being surrounded by that lot every day? I hope he does not choose You-Know-Who’s side in this war, because then we will surely become enemies. And I do not want my truest friend to become my enemy._

_~Lily_

Harry kept reading. The diary skipped days, sometimes with weeks between two entries. Just before morning arrived, Harry read the last entry of his mother’s fifth year.

_20 th June, 1976_

_I can’t believe Severus! He called me_ that _word! Potter was tormenting him as usual after our Defence O.W.L. and when I tried to get him to stop, Severus insulted me! He looked sorry after he said it, but it doesn’t change the fact that he still uttered that word. That he chose His side._

_Mary says that he’s outside the portrait right now, waiting for me to come outside and talk to him. I just… what can I say to him?! What he did is unforgivable. I can’t… I’ll go speak with him._

_-_

_I told him the truth. We couldn’t be friends anymore. It hurts me to do this, because I valued his friendship so much! But he’s been growing distant for a long time. And I tried to tell him that Macnair and Avery were no good, but he ignored my wishes and stayed friends with them. They are in You-Know-Who’s bunch; I know it._

_And now Severus is turning into one of them. Despite being friends with me, a Muggleborn, and being part Muggle himself, he’s throwing everything away to kiss the feet of a psychopath._

_Oh, Severus…_

_~Lily_

Harry sat still. Snape had gone to Voldemort and his mother had ended their friendship. Harry shook his head, dumbfounded. He knew his mother had her reasons, but he had to wonder… Did Snape go to Voldemort because he wasn’t friends with his mother anymore?  



	3. More Bad News

Harry paced from the window to the door, waiting for Taylor to arrive. With his time at the hospital ending, his day was full of appointments and meetings. As a result, the doctor had asked him to stay longer after his work had completed for the day so he could give him the final results of the exams.

His hand was shaky as he ran it through his hair and he swallowed thickly, looking at the door again. A positive meant that he was dying of a Muggle disease; a negative meant that something still might be wrong. Harry didn’t know which was worse.

The door creaked loudly and Harry’s head shot up so fast he was surprised he didn’t hurt himself. Taylor walked in, leaving his coat by the door.

“Ah, Potter. You’re here,” Taylor said shakily, his face drawn. He sat down at his desk. “Take a seat.”

Harry swallowed heavily. That didn’t sound good at all. His heart was pounding loudly against his chest; he was surprised that Taylor couldn’t hear it.

“Sir, what… I mean, how…” Harry tried to start, but he couldn’t seem to form the right words.

Taylor looked sympathetically at his patient. “The results were positive, Potter. You have leukaemia.”

Harry froze his body unable to move. Positive… oh dear Merlin…. He felt something clench painfully in his chest; he couldn’t breathe.

Taylor put a hand over his patient’s and tried to stir him from his shock. “Potter? Potter?”

Harry blinked and looked at the doctor. His shoulders fell in defeat and something was crumbling inside him. “What will I do now?” he whispered despondently.

Taylor’s hand tightened over his. “Trust me,” he said. “I’ll start treatment right away. You’re going to be alright.”

The teenager bowed his head, black hair falling into his eyes. Harry wished it was that simple. Letting out a shaky breath, he looked up again. “I go to a boarding school in Scotland,” he said. “How can you help me if I’m there? Will I be forced to stay in Surrey?” His heart raced.

“No,” Taylor said reassuringly, still squeezing his hand gently. “If you’ll recall, I am being relocated to a small hospital in Dundee within the month. Most of my patients come for their treatment and go back home within a few hours. All that needs to be done is arrange transport between your school and the nearest hospital. As long as your cell counts stay up, it can be done.”

Taylor paused and added, “I would also need to speak with the doctor or nurse at your school.”

Harry cursed silently. He could work out transport, probably, but Madam Pomfrey was a whole other problem. He just prayed that his Confunded doctor would buy his next lie.

“My school doesn’t really have a telephone,” Harry said. “It’s old-fashioned and very secretive. I’ll contact my headmaster and I’m sure that he could arrange something. If you could just, er, write a letter for the school nurse, I can ask him to give it to her.”

Luckily, the dazed look fell over the man’s eyes and he vaguely nodded.

“Not a problem. The bone marrow exams confirmed that you have leukaemia, but to treat you best, I’ll have to do a lumbar puncture. I will take a thin needle and insert it into your back. I can use your spinal fluid to determine which medicines to give you,” Taylor explained.

Harry gave a reluctant nod. “When do you need to do it?” he asked. All he got these days were more needles.

Taylor rustled the pages of his calendar. “Well, I need the results as soon as possible… my first opening is Thursday morning at ten. Come in at nine and I’ll send you home early. You shouldn’t move too much after a lumbar puncture,” he said.

Harry looked down at his hands. He did feel awful lazy, missing all these days of work. He pointed this out to his doctor.

Taylor waved away his concerns. “Not to worry. You are employed by me, not the hospital. And in any case, your health is more important than packing my boxes.”

Harry felt a warm glow in his chest, despite his embarrassment. It was nice to hear someone say that and actually mean it. If only the Dursleys had such an opinion. “Thanks,” he said, not knowing what else to say.

The older man just smiled at him. He glanced as his clock and winced. “Well, I’ve held you long enough for today. Unless you have any other questions, you should probably head home. I wouldn’t want you to miss the bus,” Taylor said apologetically.

Harry cursed mentally after checking his wrist. He stood up and thanked Taylor. “See you tomorrow,” he called out as he rushed out of the office. Uncle Vernon was going to be angry if dinner wasn’t ready when he got home.   


* * *

 

 

Night quickly fell and saw Harry putting away the last of the dishes. He found that the warm wash water and repetitive motion of dish cleaning often left him in a contemplative state.

Why did he always have to have a death sentence? First it was Voldemort, now cancer. His chest ached; it wasn’t fair. Harry had accepted that he might die early, but he had expected that Voldemort would be the one to off him. Not some bloody disease.

He had also expected something clean and quick. Maybe a little torture first but then a Killing Curse to the chest and it would be over. Like that. If he had to choose death, he wanted to die with some dignity and honour intact. Not a death that would weaken him until he wasted away. Harry sighed heavily, enjoying the feeling of air in his lungs.

Harry put the last of the plates in the cupboard and wiped his hands on the rough terry cloth. He looked out the kitchen window and glanced at the peaceful night, a light mist flowing over the back garden. He didn’t want to die.

A particularly loud crash emanated from the sitting room where the entire Dursley family was watching the telly. Harry was jolted out of his melancholy by raucous laughter. With a last glance outside, he left the kitchen and went straight up to his room, trying to be as quiet as possible.

Yawning, he flopped onto his bed and stretched out his arms. Harry didn’t really feel like doing much of anything—other than brooding, of course. It didn’t seem right or fair that he was now ill on top of everything else.

He thought about his friends. Sirius. Dumbledore. He didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know who to confide in.

He could tell Ron and Hermione but they couldn’t do anything except worry and pity him. And Harry didn’t want pity.

Harry cared about his friends. More than they would ever know, he presumed. When he left with Uncle Vernon every summer, it was as if part of him was left on the platform with them. And when he saw them again, it was as if he was whole again.

Whenever he was with Ron, he felt like he could just be himself, for good or for worse. And when he was with Hermione, he felt as if he had someone who was happy that he was him. That he existed.

They were his best friends and he didn’t want anything to change between them. He didn’t want to upset them and make them worry. His heart clenched, imagining their stricken faces. How could he do that to them?

He shoved their faces to the side. It hurt too much to see them so agonized. Instead, he focused on another smiling face.

He could tell Sirius. But could Sirius really help? The man was a convicted felon and couldn’t exactly sit by Harry’s bedside as he took ages to die. And Harry didn’t really know how Sirius would respond. Despite the letters and seeing him a few times last year, Harry felt like Sirius was a stranger. A hollow feeling erupted in his chest.

He didn’t know Sirius’s favourite colour or who his first girlfriend was. His breathing quickened. He didn’t know anything about Sirius’ family or where he lived after Hogwarts. Harry’s heart raced in his empty chest. He didn’t know his own godfather. Emotional pain spread through his heart and he squeezed his eyes shut.

Harry tried to think of something special about Sirius. Something unique that nobody else knew about him. Everything was blank. There were flashes of Sirius’s face, but no specific moment or feeling came up. He felt so alone.

Pressing his face into the lumpy pillow beneath his head, Harry forced those thoughts away, taking calming breaths.

At least it would make it easier to say goodbye to Sirius; it wasn’t as if his godfather knew him any better than Harry knew Sirius. He could move on.

Harry bit his lip as his mind moved to Dumbledore.

There weren’t words to properly describe how Harry felt about Dumbledore. He was kind and caring. Dumbledore made Harry feel safe and smart. He was everything that Harry thought a grandfather would be.

And despite all that, he hadn’t heard from his headmaster all summer. He had sent letters, asking when he could leave the Dursleys, but each reply was “ _Soon Harry_.”

When Harry asked his friends to answer, all he got were a few half-arsed apologies and cryptic messages saying that Dumbledore said not to say anything. Dumbledore.

Harry didn’t know how to react or feel. Before this summer, he would have trusted his headmaster in a heartbeat. But now, after a summer with nearly no contact from the wizarding world, Harry’s faith in Dumbledore was beginning to wane.

Harry sighed. If Dumbledore couldn’t trust him, then how could he trust Dumbledore?

Harry knew that his cancer was serious. It could be terminal. But if he told Dumbledore, could he do something? Could he find some way to cure him? Or would he just tell Harry to trust him, pat him on the head and send him on his way?

His fists clenched, nails biting into his skin. He didn’t want to be coddled like a child. Anger bubbled dangerously warm within him.

He had so many questions and none were being answered. But he did know that Dr. Taylor was willing to try and help him. And whatever they did at the hospital seemed to work for most of the Muggles there. Maybe Taylor could help him too.

Harry didn’t think that he should tell Dumbledore about Taylor. Pomfrey used potions in the Hospital Wing and Dumbledore might ask Snape to make Harry a potion to cure him of cancer. And he didn’t trust Snape. If he told Dumbledore about Taylor, and Dumbledore told Snape, then Snape would tell Voldemort and put Taylor in danger.

Taylor, a mere Muggle, wouldn’t stand a chance against Voldemort and Harry wasn’t going to risk it.

So no Dumbledore, Sirius, Hermione or Ron. Harry sighed and chucked his glasses onto his desk. Curling up into a ball, he snuggled under his blanket. It wasn’t the right time yet.

How could he tell them now, even if he wanted to? While Hedwig was a wonderful post owl, Hermione and Ron kept saying that the post wasn’t safe enough. If the post wasn’t safe for him to learn about Voldemort, surely it wasn’t safe for his news. And after all, what kind of person would he be if he told his best friends and godfather that he had terminal cancer, in a letter?

No, it would have to be in person. And he would have to tell them soon. But Harry was willing to draw it out as long as possible. Till Christmas, if need be.

He just wished that he didn’t feel so uneasy about keeping this particular secret to himself.

 

* * *

 

 

The next few days passed in a dizzying blur. Harry spent his free evenings brooding or reading his mum’s diaries. He had even started taking walks at night, just after the dinner dishes were washed. The cool air was refreshing and it had the bonus of getting him away from the Dursleys.

Among his list of items to brood about, Hedwig hadn’t arrived from Sirius’s yet and Harry was getting worried. It didn’t normally take her this long to deliver letters. He hoped that nothing had happened to her.

Speaking of brooding, although Thursday’s lumbar puncture went well, according to Taylor, Harry had the opinion that any test requiring such a long needle was evil and terrible and should be damned to hell.

Regardless, Harry was sent home after the half hour he spent resting in the hospital. Taylor told him to drink plenty of water and lie down for six to eight hours when he got home. Harry mentally scoffed. The Dursleys would not be happy that he was home early, let alone allow him to ‘be lazy’ for hours on end. Harry just hoped that Aunt Petunia wasn’t in the house when he arrived. He’d be able to sneak upstairs and avoid the Dursleys for the entire afternoon.

On the bus, Harry let his head rest against the back of his seat. A headache had already begun to appear and unease coursed through him. Dr. Taylor said that he needed to lie down every time he got a headache. It was common after the exam, but it could get worse if he did not rest. And Harry did not want it to get worse.

A sharp spike of pain shot through the space between his eyes. He hissed and pressed a hand against it. The ache then moved to the sides of his head and to just above and on his ears. Harry bent over, hoping that would stem the agony. It did little to help and he whimpered under his breath.

“Dearie? Are you alright?” a trembling high-pitched voice asked.

Through squinted eyes, Harry looked up to see that old woman with the purple handbag who rode on the bus once or twice a week with him.

“Yes, I’m fine,” Harry said hastily. He cringed as the pain went back to his temples. “Just a headache. Thanks.”

The old woman looked disbelieving, but nodded slowly. “Well, alright lad.” She shuffled back to her seat, eyeing him every few seconds, as if he were about to fall to the ground and have a fit.

Harry was very relieved when he was able to get off the bus. The woman had continued to stare at him the entire ride and it was very disconcerting. His headache was still present, so he hurried back to the Dursleys, stumbling over his feet and tripping on nothing.

At last he arrived at Number Four and was relieved to see that the car wasn’t in the driveway. Uncle Vernon wasn’t home then. He carefully let himself into the house and heard someone moving around in the kitchen. His aunt or Dudley then, but because the telly was off, he predicted the former.

Harry tiptoed to the stairs and tried to scramble up them. Sadly, his foot trod on the creaky step when his head decided to send a shooting pain into his eyes. He clenched his lip between his teeth, praying that his aunt had not heard him. When Harry realized that she wasn’t yelling at him, he sighed in relief.

He climbed the rest of the way and stole into his bedroom. The bed had never looked so inviting, Harry thought, as he sprawled out on it. His headache took some time before it ebbed to a dull roar. Sleepy from the pain and the long morning, Harry let his eyes close, hoping that he would be allowed to rest through the night.

 

* * *

 

 

“BOY!” Vernon thundered as he slammed Harry’s door open.

The teenager’s eyes snapped open and he rolled off the bed to face his uncle’s wrath. The man was shaking and his face was a dangerous shade of puce.

“I come home from a long day at the office to find the house a mess, dinner unprepared and you have the audacity to be SLEEPING!” Vernon shouted, cracking his knuckles menacingly. “To make up for your laziness, you will be cleaning the inside of this house until it shines, do you hear me! You sure as effing hell won’t be sleeping tonight, boy.”

Harry gulped and nodded hastily, trying not to wince as his head throbbed dangerously. “Yes Uncle Vernon,” he said his heart in his throat. As much as his brain was screaming at him to argue and disobey, the sight of his uncle looming over him was enough to put him on autopilot.

His uncle glared at him and practically threw him downstairs by the scruff of his shirt. “Get to work, freak!” he ordered thunderously.

Harry pulled the cleaning supplies from his cupboard and started washing the windows immediately. He had a headache to defeat even Voldemort and exhaustion was creeping over him, but all that paled in comparison to his uncle beating him like he always threatened.

After a few moments, Vernon left satisfied that Harry was doing as ordered. The aching in his back melted away as Harry’s tense muscles relaxed. He continued cleaning the sitting room, even though it was spotless. He had cleaned it this morning but that didn’t make a difference to Vernon. As long as he had a chance to threaten and yell at Harry, he really didn’t give a damn about how the house looked. That was Aunt Petunia’s area of expertise.

The night wore on and the Dursleys ate, watched the telly and then went to bed. Vernon gave Harry another glare to remind him that he was to stay up all night, cleaning. Harry sighed in despair as his uncle went upstairs.

It would be easy to run through his tasks, fall into bed and wake up before his uncle to resume, but he wasn’t sure that it would be right to risk it. His uncle could either go to bed and sleep all night, or he could get up at odd times of the night to check that he was still working. And Harry wasn’t sure if he wanted to chance sleeping, in case of the latter.

With another sigh, he finished mopping the kitchen floor and returned the supplies to his cupboard. The ground floor was complete, but he still had the top to finish. And that meant cleaning while his relatives were sleeping.

His head throbbed and echoed his footsteps as he made his way to the bathroom. It didn’t take terribly long to clean it and he was onto the guest bedroom. He tidied that and Dudley’s room without any trouble. He practically held his breath the entire time he was cleaning his aunt and uncle’s room, as both would raise hell if he woke them up. He luckily escaped and finished by mopping the second floor.

When the entire house was gleaming, Harry sprawled out on his bed and enjoyed the coolness of the pillow on his warm and sweaty forehead. It didn’t take long for him to drift off and he spent the night in very strange dreams.

When he woke in the morning, his head still ached and his arms throbbed from cleaning the night before. Thankfully, Vernon had forgotten his anger and tucked into Harry’s carefully-constructed breakfast. The teenager sighed in relief and hurried out the door as soon as his uncle had left. While his headache echoed his steps, Harry was away from the Dursleys—if only for a little while. 

 

* * *

 

 

Taylor had taken one look at him and frowned, ordering Harry to go home and rest. Harry refused. He didn’t want to give the Dursleys another reason to lock him in his room until the first of September. Harry insisted that he stay and work. Finally Taylor gave in, but he still eyed the exhausted teenager with worry and suspicion.

Harry diligently set his mind to packing all the boxes that had been put aside while he’d been ill. He actually made decent progress that morning, finishing up all the files and half a bookcase of Taylor’s books. The doctor then forced him downstairs for lunch.

Harry picked at his food, not really hungry. Taylor ate his cold pasta slowly, eyeing Harry as he chewed. Just as Harry had nearly given up on his dry cheese sandwich, the doctor spoke up.

“The children of my ward are holding a party tomorrow night. For patients only, you understand. But they asked if I could offer you, well all my patients, an invitation,” Taylor said awkwardly. “You are starting treatment very soon after all, so you are technically a patient.”

Harry was still and tense. Should he go? If he could get away from the Dursleys, it might actually be fun. Sure, they were Muggles, but did that really matter?

“Yeah,” Harry said quietly. He looked up from his food and smiled tentatively at his doctor. “That sounds great. I’ll be there!”

Taylor nodded with a slight grin on his lips. “I’ll tell Maria to let you in. It begins at seven and lasts until eleven o’clock,” he said.

Harry nodded, emotions swirling inside. He felt nervous already. “Thanks,” he said after a moment.

Taylor inclined his head. He eyed Harry’s plate. “And eat your lunch Potter,” he said with a stern concern. “You need all the nutrients you can get.”

Harry took a bite of his sandwich sheepishly. The food rolled unpleasantly in his stomach but he forced the nutrition down.

As both had finished, they got up from the table and walked back to the sixth floor ward. There was a comfortable silence between them and Harry’s shoulders relaxed slightly. A Muggle party on Saturday. He smiled.

 

* * *

 

 

Harry smoothed down his shirt with shaky hands. He stood in front of the mirror in the Dursleys’ bathroom trying to make himself presentable. His hair wouldn’t lie flat and his shirt was too wrinkled. Sighing in frustration, Harry blew a strand of hair out of his eyes with a short gust of breath. Eventually giving up, he walked downstairs and out the door.

His relatives had gone out for the evening and left him alone, thankfully leaving his door unlocked. Taking advantage, Harry dressed and left for his first non-Hogwarts party. His shoulders were tense and his stomach was roiling in excitement and nervousness.

He walked to the Muggle bus stop by the park and glanced around himself tentatively. He pulled a hat down low over his face to hide his scar and eyes. Deciding that he was alone, Harry pulled out his wand and raised it in the air.

_Bang!_ A bright purple bus screeched into existence in front of him, the doors opening quickly. Stan Shunpike was standing on the step already beginning his speech. Harry waved him off and asked, “Can you take me to a Muggle area in Staines? It’s right next to the train station.”

Stan rubbed his stubbly chin in thought. “I dunno... Hey Ern’? Can we drop ‘im off there?” he asked.

Ernie, the driver, grunted. Stan shrugged. “Awright. Says it’s fine. Tha’ll be eleven sickles,” Stan said, holding out a gritty palm.

Harry pressed the silver coins into the conductors hand and went to sit on one of the rocking beds. It didn’t take more than a few minutes before the Knight Bus to arrive. Harry hurried off the vehicle, not wanting to wait for Stan to recognize him. He breathed a sigh of relief when he heard the telltale _bang!_

Harry put his hands in his pockets and walked the almost kilometre to the hospital. He hadn’t wanted to risk getting off the Knight Bus in front of his location, so he chose the train station, a good walk away from it.

Once he had walked through the sliding doors of the lobby, Harry pulled off his hat and tried to fix his hair. Finally deciding that it was a lost cause, he called the lift. It took him up to the sixth floor and he descended into the hallway, his shoes squeaking against the clean floor.

As he passed the front desk, he nodded at Maria. She smiled and greeted him as he moved past her. Harry then walked through an arch of balloons, into what was usually the ward’s lounge. He could hear the laughter, music and conversation of young adults.

His hands were damp with nervousness when he first walked into the crowd of people. There were all sorts of children and teenagers, ranging from ten to seventeen or eighteen years old. Some of the attendees were very formally dressed; others were wearing nightclothes and hospital bands. There were a few pairs on the dance floor but most of the people were strewn about the sides of the room, sitting at or standing by tables.

Harry looked around, not sure where to begin. Should he just start talking to someone? How did a wizard talk to Muggles anyway? What the hell was he doing here?

Just as he was about to turn-tail and run, he heard, “You look a bit lost,” come from a voice on his right. Harry moved his head and saw a pretty girl about his age standing next to him.

“Just a bit,” Harry admitted with a wry grin. “I don’t really know anyone here.”

The girl smiled. “I’m Clarisse,” she said, holding out her hand.

“Harry,” he returned, shaking her calloused hand. His stomach fluttered and he smiled back easily.

“Nice to meet you Harry,” she offered, sitting down at a table. “Why don’t you join me?”

After a moment of hesitation, Harry sat down in the proffered chair. “Thanks.”

Clarisse nodded. Silence passed between them. Finally, she spoke up, “How do you like the party so far?”

Harry shrugged. “It’s ... different. I’ve never been to a dance before.”

“Really?” she asked a shocked expression on her face. “Never?”

Harry nodded. “My school had a ball last year but it was nothing like this,” he admitted.

Clarisse’s expression relaxed. “Well, at least you’ve been to a school dance. I’ve only ever been to hospital parties.” She sighed and shrugged. “While they can be awfully dull, at least they are better than nothing at all.”

“How many? Have you gone to, I mean,” Harry said, stumbling over his words. His tongue felt thick in his mouth.

She smiled wryly. “This’ll be my sixth,” she said. “I’ve been in and out of hospital since I was eight, but I only started coming to the parties when I was twelve.”

Harry looked at her. She didn’t look ill to him, although she’d have to be to attend the party. Just like him.

Clarisse returned his stare. After eyeing him for a moment, she said astutely, “You’re new to this, aren’t you?”

Harry looked away a moment before nodding, not looking at Clarisse.

“When’d you find out?” she asked quietly.

“Dr. Taylor just ran the tests a couple of days ago. I start treatment next week,” Harry admitted, gazing at his hands.

Clarisse didn’t say anything, simply reaching out and putting her hand on his. Harry let her, feeling her pleasant warmth. It was nice, sitting here with her, talking about _it._

“Thanks,” Harry croaked, when he could speak again. He looked at her.

She smiled softly. “You’re welcome,” she said. After a brief pause, she continued, “I was diagnosed with an osteosarcoma when I was nearly nine years old. It was terrifying but I got through it.” She looked into his eyes. “You will too.”

“How do you know?” Harry asked quietly, his eyes locked with hers.

“Because I have to believe that we will,” she murmured. She looked away and sniffed suspiciously. When she turned back to him, the bright smile was back on his face. She squeezed his hand comfortingly and said brightly, “Now, come! I want you to meet some of my friends.”

Harry let himself be pulled to his feet and dragged over to a group of boys and girls mingling around the drinks table. He put a smile on his face and pushed his worries to the side of his mind.

“Oi, you lot! Come meet Harry!” Clarisse called out. The faces turned to greet them with easy smiles and open grins.

Clarisse pulled him up to the front and introduced them from left to right. “Gents, ladies, this is Harry. Harry, these are my friends: Patrick, James, Lucy, Mike and Gertie.”

“Nice to meet you,” Harry said amiably, shaking the proffered hands.

“Likewise,” James said. He was tall with sleek blond hair and laughing blue eyes. In fact, he was the only other person there _with_ hair. “Welcome to the plebs!”

“The what?” Harry inquired, laughing slightly at the name.

“Plebs,” Gertie offered. She was dark-skinned with warm brown eyes. “He means plebeians. James came up with it after reading this book about Ancient Rome. The plebeians were regular citizens that had the potential to become influential and wealthy.”

“Thank you for that excellent bit of trivia, Gerts,” Mike said wryly, rolling his eyes. “She’s a walking encyclopaedia, she is.”

Gertie pushed him and huffed in mock irritation.

“Aw Mike, leave her alone!” Patrick argued, throwing an arm around Gertie. “You know she can’t help it. She’s just too smart for her own good.” Gertie looked mollified and put her arm around Patrick.

Mike just sniggered. “You just say that because you fancy her,” he countered.

“So what if he does,” Lucy piped up. She raised an eyebrow at Mike. “At least he’s got a girl.” She looked pointedly at him and the rest of the group guffawed.

Harry grinned at the close-knit bunch. Clarisse still had her hand in his and she moved closer to lean against him. Harry let her and his stomach did that fluttering thing again.

“So Harry,” Mike said, breaking him out of his reverie. “We haven’t seen you around before. Did you just move or something?”

“Well,” Harry started hesitantly. “I go to boarding school in Scotland for most of the year but I spend my summers in the Little Whinging.”

Some of his new friends looked a little confused. Clarisse stepped in. “He’s new,” she said. Understanding dawned and they nodded, smiling at him.

Harry felt the dark cloud return but he tried to push it aside. They were looking at him sympathetically but their expressions were void of pity.

“Who’s your doctor?” Gertie asked her arm still around Patrick.

“Err, Taylor,” Harry said, focusing on the warmth pressing against him.

Mike smiled. “He’s great. A bit young, sure, but he has the highest rate of remissions in the hospital. He’s my doctor too,” he said.

“The rest of us are split between Doctors Richards and Pryce,” Patrick chimed in. “Lovely chaps, they are.”

Harry grinned. After a pause, he spoke up. “So, where do all of you go to school?” he asked.

James grimaced. “Most of us are home-schooled,” he said. “Gertie goes to day school at St. Mary’s and I go to CCSS during the year.”

Harry nodded and ran a hand through his hair. He felt uncomfortable about mentioning an obviously tetchy subject. “Err, sorry,” he offered.

Mike shrugged. “It’s okay. Got over it a long time ago. Besides, if I play my cards right, I can sometimes talk my mum out of assigning homework,” he grinned cheekily.

Everyone laughed. The tension eased from the conversation and Harry was quickly integrated into the group. He didn’t even notice the time pass but when Marie came in to usher the stragglers out or to bed, Harry realized that it was time to go.

“Gosh, the time just flew, didn’t it?” Gertie exclaimed. After Patrick, Mike, Lucy and Clarisse had gone back to their rooms, Gertie, James and Harry had gone down to the lobby. Harry was a little put out that Clarisse had to leave but he promised to see her again soon. His stomach had fluttered wildly when she kissed him on the cheek before letting Marie shoo her off.

Harry had waited courteously for his friends to be picked up before he left. He could call the Knight Bus instantly, after all.

“Quite,” James agreed. “Usually these things just drag on forever but I have to admit that this party was rather fun.”

Harry nodded and shoved his hands in his pockets. “I don’t think I’ve had this much fun in ages,” he said after a moment.

James and Gertie eyed him. “Yeah, I know how that is,” James said. “But it gets better. Acceptance comes with time.”

Harry smiled weakly, knowing where James’ mind had gone. Too bad Harry was talking about more than just cancer. “It’s not that,” he admitted. “Someone three years ahead of me at school was murdered at the end of my last term. I watched it happen.”

James and Gertie looked shocked and horrified. “It’s been hard. I’ve f-felt so guilty,” Harry said, ashamed as a lump formed in his throat. He cleared it roughly and forced the tears back. “Sorry.”

Gertie shook her head. “No, that’s okay,” she said. “I had a friend who died last year. A drunk driver hit her when she was coming to visit me in the hospital.” Harry looked at her. James put a comforting arm around her shoulders and Gertie leaned into him. She had tears in her eyes. “I understand how you feel.” Harry nodded and swallowed.

A car rolled up beside the curb, surprising them, and a man looked out of the open window. “Hey Gertie, James!” he said.

“Hey dad,” Gertie said, her tears gone. “Dad, this is Harry. Harry, this is my father, Hubert Newman.”

“Nice to meet you, sir,” Harry said with a wave.

“Same to you, son,” the man said as James opened the door for Gertie. “Are your parents coming to pick you up?”

“Err, no sir,” Harry said. “I’m taking the train home. My aunt and uncle are out for the evening.”

Mr. Newman looked concerned. “It’s a bit late for you to be going home by yourself. Why don’t you hop in? I’ll drop you off,” he said.

“No, that’s alright,” Harry said politely. “I live quite far from here and I travel frequently alone. But thank you.”

“No, no, I insist,” Mr. Newman said sternly. “Get in, it’s no trouble. We’re headed that way anyway.”

Harry couldn’t argue anymore without seeming rude, so he got in the back seat, next to James. He smiled at them.

“Thanks Mr. Newman,” Harry said politely, buckling his seatbelt.

“You’re welcome, Harry,” the older man said, pulling off the curb.

Mr. Newman talked while he drove, chattering about all sorts of things, from the weather to the newest Bentley car model. Mr. Newman was a cars salesman and it seemed that he was good at his job. He asked Harry and James questions and teased Gertie relentlessly, but the drive was overall a pleasant experience.

Mr. Newman dropped Harry off first, since James and Gertie lived just a few streets off from each other. Harry thanked him again and wished them all a good night. James had exchanged phone numbers and promised to call about an outing later in the week. Harry just hoped that his uncle would be more receptive to a call from a Muggle than a wizard.

Harry walked up the path and opened the front door. He turned around to see Mr. Newman just pulling out of the driveway and leaving. Harry waved to the car and went inside. A warm feeling grew in his chest. He had had a great night and made some new friends. Muggle ones, at that.

The Dursleys weren’t back yet, so his happy mood persisted. He opened the door to his bedroom and saw Hedwig waiting on her perch.

“Hedwig!” he cried happily. She hooted tiredly but flew to his shoulder and nuzzled his head. Harry stroked her warm feathery chest. “I missed you, girl.”

Hedwig clearly had missed him too. She held out her leg and Harry untied the heavy letters from it. He fed her an owl treat and fetched fresh water for her to drink. She hooted gratefully, settling back on her perch for a long nap.

Harry sat on his bed and opened the letters. The first was from Ron.

_Hey Harry!_

_How’s your summer been? It’s a madhouse here. I can’t really say where we are or what’s been going on, but it is bloody exciting. Dumbledore said that the post isn’t very secure with You-Know-Who and everything._

_Mum has us doing chores like nothing else. She’s gone mad. Hermione’s here and she’s already finished her homework! All she talks about is bloody Krum and her trip to Bulgaria. If I have to hear about him one more time, I think I’ll be sick._

_Anyway, I’ve got to go. Mum’s calling. Good luck with the Muggles!_

_-Ron_

Harry opened the next letter.

_Dear Harry,_

_How are you? I had a lovely holiday in Bulgaria. Viktor introduced me to his family and took me to all the wizarding landmarks. It was so fascinating! Bulgaria has so much history and Mum and Dad just loved the Rila Monastery, while I preferred the Sveshtari Tomb. We had just a wonderful time._

_I’m staying with Ron now and can you believe that he hasn’t even started his homework yet! It’s just like him to wait until the last minute. Honestly. I hope you’ve at least begun yours. Snape’s essay is particularly difficult and I won’t help you if you both end up writing it the night before!_

_Anyway, we can’t really say anything about You-Know-Who, but I hope you are being careful! Dumbledore said that we would be seeing you soon._

_Take care Harry!_

_-Hermione_

Harry scowled. Nothing. Not one scrap of information. He felt anger bubble in his chest. Obviously Hermione and Ron were involved in something regarding Voldemort but he wasn’t. How bloody unfair!

He took a calming breath and opened the last letter. It was from Sirius.

_Hi Harry!_

_Sorry Hedwig is so late coming back to you! I needed to send an urgent letter out of the country and she was the only available owl at the time. I’m sorry I couldn’t ask your permission first._

_I hope that you are doing alright at the Muggles. Ron’s told me about what happened with Dobby and your relatives. Hang in there._

_I know it’s frustrating but stay safe. Keep your nose clean and try not to annoy the Muggles too much. You’ll be out of there before you know it._

_Love,_

_Sirius_

When did Sirius talk to Ron about Dobby? The only time he could have was in the hospital wing in June, but Harry doubted that they would have discussed that then. Maybe Ron and Hermione were with Sirius! That would explain the cryptic messages.

Harry had assumed that they were at the Burrow, but if they were with Sirius, maybe they were somewhere else. But where?

Harry carefully folded the letters and put them in the space under his loose floorboard. He undressed and climbed into bed, turning off his light. Hedwig was already sleeping, her head under her wing. Smiling in the darkness, Harry drifted off to sleep. He’d write letters back in the morning.


	4. Dementors

Harry triumphantly closed and taped the last box of books shut. Carrying it to the large pile of Taylor’s belongings, Harry added it to one of the smaller stacks. He stretched out the sore muscles in his back and wiped the beads of perspiration off his forehead.

He was officially finished with his job and he had completed it two days ahead of the schedule. Taylor would be pleased to find everything packed and ready to be placed in the lorry he had hired for the move. Harry was relieved that he didn’t have to carry them down to it. His back protested at the very thought.

Glancing at the clock, Harry realized that he had nearly an hour before Taylor would return from his appointments to see him; the doctor wanted to discuss his treatment schedule for the upcoming months. Instead of counting the unnaturally white floor tiles, Harry stepped outside and walked along the ward.

Coming up to a room, he recognized it from Saturday night. Knowing how much he enjoyed receiving visitors while in the Hogwarts hospital wing, he decided to have a go at being one.

“Hello,” Harry said quietly, knocking on the door of the hospital room.

“Harry!” the girls cried out together.

Clarisse sat up straighter and beckoned him to enter. “Why didn’t you come around sooner?” she exclaimed.

“I’ve been busy,” Harry said evasively, trying to change the subject. “How have you been?”

“Very well thanks,” Lucy said, shifting against her pillows.

“Excellent,” Clarisse added. “How’re you?” She gave him a brilliant smile and patted the bed in front of her. “Please, sit!”

“Fine, thanks,” he returned, perching on the mattress. It was firm and springy, like his hospital bed in Hogwarts. “I’m supposed to meet with Dr. Taylor in an hour, so I thought I’d stop by for a visit.”

“Well, it’s wonderful to see you again,” Clarisse said, her eyes sparkling. Heat touched his cheeks and Harry grinned sheepishly.

Lucy giggled and settled back on her pillows. “You came just in time. Clarisse and I were talking about calling everyone to watch a film tomorrow night in the common room.”

“Yeah?” Harry said, grinning. “That sounds great!”

Clarisse beamed. “Since this one here,” she pointed wryly at Lucy, “hasn’t seen _Frankenstein_ as yet, I thought it would be great if we watched that.”

“I’d love to,” the wizard offered. “Although I’ve never seen it either.”

Clarisse looked scandalized but, after a moment, shrugged it off. “Well, that settles it then, doesn’t it? I’ll call Michael and James. Lucy, you want to get Patrick and Gertie?”

“Sure,” Lucy said. Harry watched as both girls grabbed the phones in the room and started dialing.

Harry looked awkwardly around the room, made apprehensive by the sudden lack of attention. He worried the fraying edge of his shirt, thoughts swirling in his mind. He’d never seen a film before. The Dursleys never had a reason to take him to the cinema and he hadn’t actually been given a reason to go.

The corners of his lips twitched upwards. Even if it was with Muggles, he was going to spend a whole evening away from the Dursleys and in the company of people who didn’t hate him.

 _Click!_ Harry started, looking up at Clarisse. She winked coyly at him and gestured to Lucy. The girl was twirling the telephone cord in her fingers and was giggling into the phone. She looked like the type of girl that traveled in packs and acted strange whenever she saw a bloke walk by. Harry’s face remained a mask of utter confusion.

Clarisse laughed aloud, causing Harry and Lucy to stare perplexedly at her. Waving off their concern at her apparent hysteria, she fell back onto her pillows, gasping, choking and utterly red in the face.

When Lucy hung up the telephone and shot a confused look at Harry, all he could do was shrug. He just couldn’t understand girls.   


* * *

 

 

Harry quickly learned that Clarisse, while also slightly mad, was not the person to ask for film recommendations. All of the teenagers rapidly agreed that this particular version of _Frankenstein_ had to be one of the worst films in the history of moving pictures.

After all the electronics had been switched off and the film was chucked in the bin, the teenagers lounged on the plush chairs and chatted aimlessly.

Harry was filled with a warm and comforting feeling as the talk filtered around him. The boys had struck up a conversation centered on the local football teams, while the girls were giggling and whispering to themselves. He was content to simply listen, as he couldn’t contribute to either discussion.

Regardless, Patrick insisted on pulling him into their conversation.

“So, which team do you follow, Harry?” he asked inquisitively.

Harry felt the back of his neck warm with embarrassment. “I actually don’t follow football,” he said with a shrug.

All the boys looked scandalized. “You don’t follow football!” Michael echoed dumbly. “How can you not like the bloody best sport in the world?”

The wizard laughed nervously and felt more heat rush into his cheeks. “Er…um…” he stuttered.

“I’m sure he prefers rugby to football, Michael. Isn’t that right Harry?” James said carefully, looking at him. He was possibly the least offended of all the Muggles.

Harry opened his mouth and answered honestly, yet quite stupidly. “Actually, no.”

All of the teenagers’ jaws fell to the floor in horror. Harry blanched and mentally walloped himself. He tried to amend his statement. “It’s not that I hate football or rugby, it’s just that I like the sport that I play at school better.” And just managed to dig himself into an even deeper ditch.

“Oh, really?” Michael retorted, extremely upset over the affront to his two favorite games. “So, what is it?”

Harry felt his hands shake and suddenly he wanted a drink of water. “Er, well… it’s really obscure, you’ve probably never heard of it…” he fumbled, searching for a good lie.

“Try us,” Patrick challenged, not unkindly. He was still sitting with his arms crossed and his raised eyebrow was twitching madly.

Harry paused for a moment, before replying semi-honestly, “We call the game Quidditch. Someone who went to my school ages ago created it.”

James, Patrick and Michael shared dubious looks before shrugging simultaneously. “So, how do you play this ‘Quidditch’?” James asked curiously.

Harry swallowed and felt the words come a little easier, although his shoulders were practically shaking from the tension. He really needed to change the subject fast. “There are seven players on each team. Three of them are called Chasers. The Chasers pass around a big red ball and try and score on the goals. Each goal is worth ten points. The Keepers defend the h-goals,” he said.

The tension in his shoulders eased as the hostile looks from his new friends faded into small smiles and nods. “Next, two of the players are called Beaters. They, er, chuck black balls at the other team to keep them from scoring. And last is the Seeker. This player is responsible for finding and … capturing a tiny golden ball. The golden ball is worth 150 points and getting it ends the game.”

James, Patrick and Michael were wide-eyed after Harry’s explanation and shared a glance.

“Blimey, that’s madness!” Patrick exclaimed, staring at Harry. “I think I prefer rugby and I don’t even like playing sport.”

“You actually _like_ that?” Michael asked dubiously.

James simply shook his head. “You’re off your rocker, mate.”

Anger at the insult to Quidditch rose in his chest, but sense finally arrived and told him to let it go. It sounded suspiciously like Hermione. Harry conceded, smiled gamely and shrugged.

The conversation lulled with bated breath before Patrick started with another curious and difficult question. “So, which school do you go to anyway? I don’t think you ever said its name.”

Harry blanched yet again. “Er, it’s a really small school that nobody really knows about because admission is by invitation only. I only got in because my parents went there,” he lied, an uneasy churn developing in his stomach from all these half-truths.

The boys looked generally disinterested after the last bit. James, however, had paused. He looked at Harry, confusion clearly written on his face. “You said that your school is in Scotland?” he repeated.

Harry looked at him, his stomach swirling uneasily. “Yeah. Why?” he returned.

“And you’re going back this term?” James persisted.

“Yes,” Harry said, almost impatiently. “What of it?” Patrick and Michael sat up stiffly and looked incredulously at Harry. The wizard looked at all of them with impatience and irritation clear on his face. “ _What?_ ”

They all looked at each other blankly, before Patrick volunteered to answer. “You can’t receive your treatments and live so far away from hospital. Not if you aren’t in remission, like James is. It would be too much to travel so far every week,” he explained.

Realization dawned on him and the uneasiness in his stomach disappeared instantly. “Actually, Dr. Taylor arranged it all. For the next few weeks, Dr. Richards will sign off on my treatments, but when the term starts, Taylor will be my doctor again. My school isn’t terribly far from his new post.”

James smiled at him. “You’re quite lucky, you know. Doing induction during the summer,” he said. “They first found out I was ill, just after Christmas two years ago. I had to miss the first half of the term from chemotherapy alone. Then they kept me out because my cell count was too low. I was almost a whole year behind before I finally went into remission.”

“Really?” Harry asked weakly. He felt lightheaded and dizzy at the thought. “Is it always like that?”

“Usually,” Michael contributed. “I was pulled out in the middle of last term. At first I thought I could handle being an outpatient, but after my white blood cell count dipped… Taylor had me at home first, so I could be with my parents. But then I got really ill when my little sister accidentally brought home a cold. So I was put here.”

Patrick put a hand on Michael’s shoulder and looked at Harry. “You should be alright, I think. For having leukemia, you are terribly energetic and healthy. I’d been ill four times and lost a stone or two by the time I checked in here. It means that they’ve caught it early and that’s only good news for you.”

“Yeah, like Patrick said, you’ll be alright. Taylor will know what to do. If you’re lucky, your cell counts will recover enough for you to return for the term,” James said optimistically.

Patrick cut in, “But if you do end up in hospital, you should come here. Richards is just as good as Taylor _and_ you’ll be able to join our study group!”

Michael nodded eagerly, but Harry was only able to muster a half-hearted grin. His heart was beating painfully against his ribs and his stomach had dropped to the floor, leaving emptiness inside him.

What if his cell counts dropped so low? He would have to leave Hogwarts… Harry hadn’t thought of the effect of the treatments on his body. Would being a wizard make any difference? Would he be well enough to go to school?

“Harry?”

A voice startled him out of his thoughts. He looked up to see the three Muggles looking at him worriedly.

“Are you alright?” James asked.

He smiled weakly and nodded. They looked unconvinced but sympathetic as they started a new conversation. Harry tried to keep his thoughts from drifting back to the dark places in his mind by focusing to their idle talk.

James, Patrick and Michael tried to include him, but it was clear that Harry was distracted. Having been through similar situations, the three Muggles let him have his space while also keeping him from descending into absolute brooding.

It wasn’t long before the conversations waned and the two groups joined to turn the talk to the hospital staff. Michael and Patrick apprised everyone on an argument that two orderlies had gotten into on Tuesday. Harry remembered hearing the screams and crashes as he was boxing Taylor’s books.

Patrick revealed that the orderlies had started chucking filthy bedpans at each other at one point, ultimately drenching the head nurse with the contents of a particularly foul pan. That had everyone falling into a fit of laughter, since hatred of the head nurse was unanimous on the ward.

When Harry managed to regain his seat, he heard a familiar tapping sound behind him. Spinning around, he saw Hedwig at the window and all the blood left his face. In his experience, the owl post and Muggles typically did not mix.

However his quick movement had caught the attention of his new friends and they were all very curious as to why a snowy owl was knocking on the common room window. Harry had no choice but to let her in, as she wouldn’t leave until he told her to.

“Hey Hedwig,” he murmured to her, stroking her soft breast. His owl wearily climbed to his shoulder, nipped his ear in affection and stuck out her leg. Harry untied the parchment scrolls and tucked them into his pocket. “Thanks.”

“Why do you have an owl on your shoulder, Harry?” Michael asked with eyes so wide, they were almost comical.

“She’s my pet,” Harry said carefully.

“Your pet?” Lucy repeated dubiously. “How can you have an owl as a pet?”

“Well,” Harry started, uneasily thinking up another lie, “my school is next to a forest and one of my professors rescued her when she got hurt. I helped him take care of her and she’s stayed with me ever since.” He dared not look at Hedwig, worried that her incredulous look would keep him from remembering such an elaborate ruse.

“But why did she have that paper on her leg?” Patrick asked inquisitively.

Harry tried to keep his story simple by replying, “My friend actually trained her to carry mail. She’s dead useful and much faster than the postman.”

Clarisse grinned and came closer. “Well, I think she’s brilliant,” she said softly, putting a hand on Harry’s arm. “Do you think I could pet her?”

“I don’t think she’d mind,” he said, grinning stupidly as his skin tingled comfortably.

Hedwig looked very disgruntled when Clarisse reached a hand towards her, and expressed her irritation by snapping at the Muggle’s fingers.

“Hedwig!” Harry scolded, frowning at her. “What was that for?”

Hedwig clicked her beak and took off from his shoulder, clipping him with her wing as she turned and soared out of the window. Harry was left feeling utterly confused and slightly embarrassed.

“Sorry about her,” he mumbled to Clarisse, warmth staining his cheeks. “She’s usually not like that.”

“It’s alright,” Clarisse said, sounding only a little disappointed. “Maybe some other time.”

“Speaking of ‘another time’,” Gertie piped up, checking the clock. “We really ought to be heading out. It’s getting awfully late.”

After a glance at the time, Harry agreed. Uncle Vernon would already be cross that he went out and he didn’t need him angrier.

Within minutes, the group broke off. Those who stayed in hospital went to their rooms, while James, Gertrude and Harry went back downstairs. James and Gertie waited on the bench for James’ mother to retrieve them, but Harry departed for the station despite their many protests. He didn’t want to risk another parent taking him to Privet Drive, especially when he was already in trouble with his uncle.

Therefore, Harry quickly went to the station and called the Knight Bus. Another eleven sickles and some minutes later had him on Magnolia Crescent. He stumbled home in the moonlight, dreading the wrath that would descend upon him when he arrived home.   


* * *

 

 

Harry trudged up to the hospital doors, his back already damp with sweat and perspiration dripping uncomfortably down his forehead. When the sun had risen Saturday morning, the hot night had turned into a blistering day.

Sighing in relief, Harry entered the building. The cool air of the interior washed over him, instantly chilling his hot skin. He shivered slightly as the gooseflesh on his arms became more sensitive.

The doctors and nurses, well used to his presence, greeted him as he walked to his destination. He entered the laboratory and spied the nurse’s station.

“Hello,” he said nervously. “Harry Potter here for an appointment.”

The woman looked up at him briefly before checking the list in front of her. When her gaze returned to his, there was pity in her eyes. She gestured to a row of reclining chairs against the wall. “Please sit down, Mr. Potter,” she said. “I’ll be with you in a moment.”

Harry chose the last chair and sat stiffly. Looking around, he saw other children with their parents and grown men or women with their friends. He was the only one sitting alone. A deep ache struck him suddenly and his chest burned with the feeling. If only Ron, Hermione and Sirius were there.

“Alright, Mr. Potter,” the nurse said, pulling him out of his thoughts. “Since you’ve already completed your blood test, we’ll start you with some Zofran and our standard round of good stuff to keep you from getting sick.”

She attached a clear bag full of liquid to the top of a tall pole. At the other end was a thin tube that she gathered in her hand. Harry looked away as she inserted the intravenous line and fixed the attachments with a paper-like tape.

“When that bag finishes, I’ll start your vincristine IV,” she said, patting him comfortingly on the shoulder. “If you start feeling ill or you need me, just call.”

Harry nodded mutely and relaxed on the chair. The liquid from the bag dripped achingly slowly and he quickly grew bored of staring at the walls. Mentally promising to bring his homework the following week, he began to consider the future.

According to his friends, Dumbledore hadn’t said anything about him spending any portion of the holidays with the Weasleys, despite repeated requests. Harry assumed that meant that he was to stay at the Dursleys for the rest of the holidays. And while that generated another deep ache of loneliness within him, it also meant that he would be able to secretly finish the difficult part of his chemotherapy treatment before term.

Taylor had explained that Harry would begin with four weeks of intense chemotherapy, called induction phase. And while the medicine would kill most of the cancer cells, it also had horrid side effects like vomiting and hair loss. Harry’s insides clenched at the thought of being so ill while staying with his unpleasant and uncaring relations.

At the same time, however, he was relieved that he wasn’t with his friends or Sirius. Harry didn’t want to worry them or be forced to tell them about the cancer before he was ready. And after all, he had taken care of himself since his parents died. The Dursleys wouldn’t care if he were alive or dead. In fact, him being ill would probably throw them into fits of joy.

Harry snorted and shook himself out of his morbid thoughts. He didn’t need to worry about covering his arse for the next four weeks. The wizard was more worried about after.

According to the doctor, he would begin the consolidation phase that could go from four to eight months in length. If it was successful, then the cancer would be gone and he would just have to undergo another regimen until Taylor was sure that it wouldn’t return.

The problem, he imagined, was in finding a reliable method to go from Hogwarts to the hospital and back without revealing his secret. He needed something that was quiet and untraceable. Harry needed to be able to disappear from Hogwarts under Dumbledore’s nose and return without anyone being the wiser.

He sat up straighter in the hard chair as everything fell into place. A Portkey was his only option.

Voldemort and Crouch Jr. used a Portkey to get him to the graveyard; they were able to do it without Dumbledore finding out _and_ while he was still on the Hogwarts grounds.

The library at school would have the book he needed, Harry reasoned. The knot in his belly eased and he loosened his tense back. All he’d have to do was learn one more spell.

A bag rustled next to him and he looked up to see the nurse changing the now-empty bag with another full one.

“Here’s your first bit of chemo,” the older woman said. “I’ll be back in a moment with the L- asparaginase shot. That’ll be the last one for today. You’re scheduled for the intrathecal chemo next week. I guess Taylor wants to start you off easy.” When she came back, shot in hand, she had a kind smile on her face. “You’re a lucky one, aren’t you? Most patients I know would have been sick already, or at least requested a bucket. But you aren’t even green yet.”

Harry grinned weakly, which felt more like a grimace.

“Not to worry, dear. The bucket’s right here, if you need it. Shouldn’t be more than another hour or so…” the woman nattered on about some nonsense.

Harry’s attention was focused intently on the particularly big and deep sick tray that was sitting on the bench in front of him. His fine nose picked up a faint trace of sick and he nearly gagged at the thought. Looking away, he tried focusing on something else to avoid the thought of being sick in the smelly monstrosity or the thick needle she was about to stick in his arm.  


* * *

 

 

Harry only lasted about six hours before he was sick. He gone back to Privet Drive after the hospital and it wasn’t long before he was embracing the cool, porcelain toilet. He coughed and gagged relentlessly, feeling cold sweat break out on his forehead and his throat strain with the effort.

When he finally sat back after emptying his entire gastrointestinal tract of anything it might have ever held, he groaned in agony. His chest and throat burned terribly. Harry spat back into the toilet, levering himself up to wash the taste out of his mouth.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t long before he was sick again, this time bringing up nothing but acid. His throat and chest burned for ages after his stomach stopped rebelling.

Time lapsed hazily, Harry falling asleep between bouts of nausea. He eventually fell asleep and was woken by the heavy thuds of Dudley’s feet pounding up the stairs. The young wizard got himself and the room cleaned up as quickly as possible in his weak and shaky state, using air freshener to rid the bathroom of the horrid sweet and sour smell of sick.

Finished, Harry left his sanctuary and padded into his bedroom. His joints ached with every movement and his back was stiff from sitting on the floor all afternoon. Looking outside, he saw that it was nearly supper, surprised that he didn’t feel hungrier. Although, Harry figured, being ill could have something to do with that.

He sat on his bed, waiting for Dudley to go back downstairs. When he heard the massive movements coming from his large cousin, Harry forced himself up and to the door. Even though the empty feeling had not entered his belly yet, he knew that he needed to eat.

Therefore, Harry spent a very uncomfortable hour with the Dursleys, picking at his plate and forcing his heavy jaw to chew the beans, roast and rolls. Dudley ate like a starving animal, as usual, while his aunt and uncle glared at Harry and talked about him under their breaths. Harry felt less hungry with each comment, but forced himself to eat. It was important.

After the meal, Aunt Petunia had him clean up the kitchen until she gave her approval. Harry’s wobbly knees were practically glued together by the time she let him go, but at least he could finally go to bed.

Feeling faintly nauseous, Harry swallowed heavily and dressed for bed. He lay down, burying his head in the lumpy pillow, and thought dreamily of his soft and warm four-poster bed at Hogwarts. He closed his eyes and let himself fall asleep, his stomach rolling slowly as he went.

He slept well for an hour or so, but eventually the nausea woke him up and he was back in the bathroom again. This time he was only sick a few times before his stomach was satisfied and calm. Harry washed up and trudged back to bed, his chest hurting and his throat burning. It felt even worse this time, as he had to force himself to be quieter in order to not wake up his relatives.

Curling up in bed, Harry’s knees moved to his chest and he whimpered softly, squeezing his eyes shut as a different sort of burning heat rose from his chest to his throat and eyes. He smothered it down with a shuddering breath and lay there, feeling sorry for himself. Eventually the boy slipped off into sleep, his face still troubled in the darkness.   


* * *

 

 

Monday came and went without much fanfare. At midnight, Harry had received a few gifts from his friends, but the card from Hermione stood out the most. She wrote, “ _I expect we’ll be seeing you quite soon_.”

That had left him very curious, and a bit worried. Harry had spent the whole of Sunday in bed, only getting up to use the bathroom or retrieve the food his aunt slid under the flap in his door. (Petunia had taken one look at him before forcefully quarantining him before he “infected them all.”) The pervasive weakness in his limbs shocked him; he hadn’t the energy to sit up for more than an hour.

Harry was worried that Dumbledore would send for him before he could complete the induction phase. Even if he could manage to disappear to Surrey for a few hours on Saturdays, he would still spend all of Saturday evening and Sunday in bed.

Not only would that worry his friends to the point that Hermione would bite her nails to the quick and Ron would start brooding, but his presence would put a large burden on the Weasleys who already had enough problems without adding his own.

Very good examples were the gifts he had received from his friends. Both Ron and Hermione had sent him nice packages of Honeydukes chocolate. Now, of course, there was nothing wrong with the very fine sweets, but never before had he received the same gift from both of his best friends. Harry wasn’t exactly certain what this meant, but it definitely wasn’t something good.

The notes attached to the chocolates had no more information than the letters he received on Thursday. The roiling frustration in his chest, partly from no information but mostly from being trapped in his room all day, nearly caused him to chuck his unopened gifts into the bin; but the thought that these might be his last birthday gifts ever, stopped him.

Harry was relieved that he hadn’t chucked them when Aunt Petunia served a very wilted salad that night for dinner. His sweet tooth certainly enjoyed the chocolates more than his stomach did.

Hedwig spent Monday night at the Dursleys, resting from her recent rash of trips. Harry wrote responses to his friends and Sirius, leaving them on his desk before he went to sleep, and found them all gone in the morning. He chuckled wryly at the work ethic of his faithful friend before dressing for the day.

His aunt finally let him out of his room and gave him a very long list of chores to complete before dusk set in. Harry still felt a bit weak, but better than he had been in some days. He tried not to overdo it by weeding the garden when shadows covered the flowerbeds and cleaning the inside of the house during the hottest parts of the day.

Still, the exhausting yet mind-numbingly boring work let him brood on the only thing his mind could focus on, lately. Cancer. And of course, his thoughts had to focus on how or when he would tell Sirius and his friends about it.

After learning more about his treatment, Harry was hoping that he would never have to tell them anything. Taylor was almost certain that the cancer would be nearly gone before he started school again. And if that were true, then wouldn’t telling them just cause undue stress? With Voldemort out there they didn’t need any more bad news, as they had enough to be getting on with.

His stomach churned uncomfortably, not from the medicine-induced nausea this time. Harry knew it was wrong. But there was this part of him, deep down inside—like a dark hole that was engulfing him every time he thought about dying in the very near future. It made him feel as if he were surrounded by Dementors. And in that dark place was this weak but very insistent voice that was telling him that it was better to be alone.

It kept whispering reasons that made utter sense, but felt cold and stung painfully when he finally accepted the arguments. This feeling felt wrong, but in a very twisted way, it also felt right. Harry didn’t want to listen to this urge. He wanted to bare his soul to his friends; to Sirius; to Dumbledore… to get some comfort from those he cared so much about.

But that dark place stopped him every time he thought about penning a letter or telling the Knight Bus to take him to the Burrow. It made him see flashes of his friends crying or yelling at him for not telling them sooner. He saw the pity in their eyes, something he never wanted to imagine again. Harry felt the pain that he caused them thrice over and the agony that would be written all over Sirius’ face.

And despite the near-silent voice of reason, that sounded an awful lot like Hermione, telling him that those things would happen if he kept his secret much longer, the pit of darkness within him was stronger. It wasn’t something he could describe in words. All it left him with was this absolute, inexplicable need to keep everything silent.

Harry just hoped that his instincts were not wrong.  


* * *

 

 

He fell asleep quickly that night; exhausted from chemotherapy, leukaemia and all the work his aunt had him complete. But sometime, in the early hours of the morning, his dreams of flying in the paddock at the Burrow changed into something much darker and more sinister.

The room was dank, dark and depressing; everything smelt of mold and long-lived dust bunnies. Harry was sitting in a large armchair, facing a roaring fire. Even though the flames were high and warm, he still felt an aching chill deep within his bones. Long, white fingers caressed the wand resting in his hands.

“M-m-master?” a weak and sniveling voice called out from the darkness behind him.

“What!” Harry heard himself shout, in a voice that was terrifyingly not his own. And then he knew, with startling clarity, who the voice and those fingers belonged to.

“It is t-t-time for your t-t-tea, M-m-master,” Wormtail stuttered, grovelling while holding an old tea service.

“What are you waiting for? Serve me!” Voldemort cried. The rat immediately scrambled to do his bidding, preparing a cup of tea.

Harry shivered as a cold wind swept across his tender skin. Wait a moment… he was cold? Or rather, Voldemort was cold.

The evil wizard was soon cradling a cup of hot tea while Wormtail scurried back into the darkness. As the warm liquid slipped down his throat, Harry’s vision started to fade.

Within moments the teenager was awake in his room on Privet Drive, trembling and dripping with sweat. His mind whirled with questions unanswered and even more spurned by this eerie dream. How could he see through Voldemort’s head? Why was he having these visions?  And what did they mean?

Lying back down on his lumpy pillow, Harry dug the heels of his hands into his forehead in frustration. He’d just have to write to Sirius or Dumbledore when Hedwig came back.

Turning over, he closed his eyes and tried to get some rest for the coming day.   


* * *

 

 

Wednesday dawned hotter than any other day that summer. Harry spent most of it in the garden, trimming the rose bushes. But by late afternoon he had been released from all the work and his aunt shooed him out of the house for being annoying.

Since the dream about Voldemort, Harry’s curiosity in the evil wizard’s actions had peaked. The lack of news from magical sources led him to pursue the Muggle varieties. After catching him ogling the telly and scrounging through the bin for the papers, his aunt had sent him outside.

Fortunately for him, he had found a wonderful listening spot directly under the living room window. The wilting hydrangea bush hid him from all who walked by, especially Mrs. Figg. The dotty old woman had taken to inviting him over for tea and the only thing that had allowed him to refuse was his job. Now that he was most certainly unemployed, the woman seemed to be patrolling the street more frequently. It was as she was trying to catch him unawares.

Before he could go on about batty old ladies, he heard his relatives grumbling about him again. Harry rolled his eyes and ignored them. Eventually the reports began, but the lack of doom and gloom got him to sigh with relief.

While the previous night’s dream wasn’t the worst he had had by far, it did make him awfully nervous to think that Voldemort had enough time to mull in front of a fireplace and drink tea. Without any source of information, he had been going mad, imagining all sorts of horrible things. No news sounded like good news in this instance.

After the news dwindled to water-skiing budgerigars, Harry prepared to climb out of his hiding spot. He could go for a walk to the park. But that plan was postponed when a loud cracking sound pierced the air.

Harry jumped up, his wand in hand, narrowly avoiding a hit to the head courtesy of the Dursley’s living room window. While he was peering around for any sign of the disturbance, his uncle seized his throat with both of his large, purple hands.

“ _Put—it—away!”_ Vernon Dursley said through angrily clenched teeth. “ _Now! Before—anyone—sees!_ ”

“Get—off—me!” Harry gasped as his air supply dwindled dangerously.

The teenager pulled at his uncle’s fingers with his free hand, but when his vision grew dim, Harry heard his uncle yelp. Suddenly, he could breathe again, and he staggered back from the window, his left hand going to his throat. It felt raw and sore, his throat burning as he swallowed.

When Harry looked around and saw the neighbours peeking through their curtains, he stuffed his wand into his jeans again, trying to look relatively innocent while massaging a mangled throat.

His uncle shouted ‘greetings’ at the neighbours while Harry stood and brushed off his pants. Vernon beckoned him to the window and the teenager was forced to obey, although he made sure to stand out of reach of his uncle.

His relatives then proceeded to accuse him falsely of doing magic and being a general nuisance. Eventually Harry had enough, said something he’d probably get in trouble for later, and stormed off for the park.

The walk did wonders for his disposition, but the deeply rooted anger still simmered below the surface. And that anger and frustration had been stewing for a long time.

The whole cancer bit had thrown him off for the last few weeks. Harry was confused, scared, lost and lonely. But anger at the unfairness of his situation coupled with the frustration of not being able to do anything other than follow orders was wearing at his patience and sense of calm.

And it wasn’t just the cancer. He had been getting loads of letters this summer and all of them were devoid of solid information. Ron and Hermione would leave these hints and clues that didn’t add up to make any sense at all, while Sirius was apologetic and cautious. With everything that had happened, Harry had expected more from his friends and godfather than that!

All that rage, frustration, anger and general upset were finally coming together. Grief and confusion had tempered them for some time, but Vernon’s attempted strangling and the possible presence of a magic user had brought them to the forefront.

As Harry trudged to the locked gate of the park, he thought about the sound that had started it all. It sounded like Apparation or Disapparation, but if it was, why hadn’t the wizard or witch come to speak with him? Was someone following him, or had someone been following him?

… Maybe they had been following him all summer. The thought made him feel like vomiting. What if they _knew_? Sitting on the only unbroken swing, Harry contemplated that particular question. Was all his secrecy for naught?

And then he considered the other side. Maybe the sound was just that, a car back-firing. Perhaps the only abnormal thing about the afternoon was his uncle’s attempt to kill him.

Harry sat, mulling over his thoughts, when Dudley and his gang showed up.  


* * *

 

 

In retrospect, the Dementors were probably the most typical of things to happen to Harry all summer. Granted, while the aftermath was quite unusual, the actual presence of Dementors in the Little Whinging paled in comparison to being diagnosed with a terminal disease and finding the part-Muggle and part-Wizard portions of his life could actually collide at one point.

Once banished to his room by his relatives, Harry fell on his bed bonelessly. Dementors could drain him of all his energy when he was perfectly healthy. In his less-than-wonderful condition without chocolate, adrenaline had been the only thing keeping him moving.

Too exhausted to reach for the chocolate stashed under his bed, Harry closed his eyes and drifted into a half-asleep and half-awake state of mind. He realized at some point that Hedwig had come back, dangling a frog from her beak, but he was in no condition to even open his eyes enough to look at her, let alone write letters that evening.

Therefore, it was late the next morning that he copied out notes for Ron, Hermione and Sirius. While strongly worded, they were not as angry as they could have been. He was still feeling weak and with another round of treatments coming in two days, all he could do was ask Hedwig to ensure answers.

His faithful friend agreed and flew off with the letters, quickly flying high and out of Muggle view.

Lying back down on his bed, Harry stared at the ceiling, thinking of everything that had happened. Before last night, his two worlds had been separate and he could almost control the contact they had with each other.

But suddenly, it had all changed.

The Dementors meant that Privet Drive was no longer completely safe for him. And if Dumbledore had already assigned wizards to watch him, did that mean that he would be removed from Surrey? If so, how would he continue his Muggle treatments while being so carefully monitored in the wizarding world?

Also, Dumbledore had the gall to have fully-trained wizards and witches guarding all summer, but he couldn’t be bothered to tell Harry about them? The teenager bit his lip. What if they had followed him into the hospital? They had stayed outside the house on Privet Drive, but the hospital was a very large building… what if they found out about the cancer?

Harry groaned and squeezed his eyes shut. It all had fallen apart so quickly. He felt lightheaded with confusion and the overwhelming doubt.

He drew in a deep breath and let it out, opening his eyes again. He had to straighten this out, before he went mad with unanswered questions.

First, Harry had to assume that if his guard had followed him into the hospital, then they knew that he had leukaemia. But if the guard found out, he or she would have told Dumbledore. And even though Dumbledore had been silent about everything since last term, Harry had to assume that if his headmaster knew, then he would have heard from him. Therefore, his secret had to still be a secret.

Furthermore, that meant that the guards had not been tailing his every move, which could bode well for the future.

Because, logically, Harry also had to admit that he would probably be leaving Privet Drive soon. Dementors on the Little Whinging was too dangerous, especially so close to his relatives’ home. If Dumbledore had people guarding him, then he obviously recognized that potential danger. And with Mundungus’ blunder, his chances of staying at the Dursleys were greatly reduced.

Therefore, he had to be prepared for the near-certain probability that he would leave Privet Drive before he completed his four-week treatment, and go to the Burrow. Harry would then be with his friends, but he would also have the added difficulty of disappearing for hours while he went to Surrey and back.

That and hiding the side affects had only one logical conclusion, and that did not bode well for him.

Harry groaned and turned over in bed. Exhaustion was creeping over him again and he had not gotten very far in his reasoning. And even though he was eager to resolve all his problems, his heavy eyelids were shutting of their own accord. Eventually he drifted off into dreamland once more. 


	5. The Order of the Phoenix

Four days later, Harry was lying down on his bed, trying very hard to get some rest. While he had largely recovered from the Dementor attack, the additional exposure to chemotherapy agents on Saturday had him either flat on his back or hovering over the porcelain god.

Just as he was going to drift off, his uncle walked in, a distasteful sneer on his face when he glanced at his prone nephew.

Harry struggled to open his heavy eyes and focused on Uncle Vernon’s wavering visage.

“We’re going out,” Vernon said, standing as far away from Harry as possible.

“Sorry?” the teenager croaked confusedly.

“We — that is to say, your aunt, Dudley, and I — are going out.”

“Fine,” said Harry, wishing that he could close his eyes again.

“You are not to leave your bedroom while we are away.”

Harry grimaced. “Uncle Vernon, I might have to use the loo…” he said while curling a hand around his stomach pointedly.

Vernon shivered violently in distaste and forcefully bit out his next words. “You may only leave to use the loo,” he said slowly. “You are not to touch the television, the stereo, or any of our possessions.”

The teenager nodded in admission and relaxed slightly.

“You are not to steal food from the fridge.”

Harry didn’t think that that would be a problem, as the ever-present nausea swelled.

“I am going to… never mind.”

“Okay.”

His uncle left the room as fast as he could move and Harry sighed in relief when the door slammed shut. He closed his eyes and allowed himself to drift off in the waning light, to the rumbling sound of the Dursleys’ car leaving the driveway.   


* * *

 

 

Harry groaned as he pushed himself up against the tile wall of the bathroom. His skin tingled to the touch and every movement caused a burning, prickling sensation along the affected areas. A very rebellious stomach rolled and churned, causing him to swallow convulsively to keep from being sick. Harry closed his eyes and hoped that he wouldn’t have to vomit again.

His methods might have worked, if a sudden crash downstairs hadn’t startled him into moving and opening his eyes. Harry had no choice but to clutch at the toilet again, his insides twisting and expelling nothing but stomach acid. He had long since gotten rid of everything else.

When he was finally able to stop, he remembered the noise he heard. The Dursleys couldn’t be home yet… He heard voices resonate from just below the stairs and light footsteps that were coming closer to the second landing. Could it be burglars? But, they wouldn’t make so much noise…

Moving as quickly as he could, Harry stood up, hoping that the intruders were absolute weaklings. He swayed on the spot and his heart thundered in his ears before a bright light shone in from the dark hallway, stinging his tired eyes.

“Harry?” a very familiar, slightly hoarse voice asked.

“P-Professor Lupin?” Harry croaked. He blinked dizzily and the room span.

Lupin, having recognized the look on the teenager’s face, quickly moved to support him. “Easy,” he said gently, closing the toilet lid and helping Harry sit down on it. The man then knelt to look at his face. “Are you alright?”

Harry swallowed slowly and nodded. “I’m fine,” he lied, putting a hand to his fuzzy head. “What’re you doing here?”

The former professor looked at his charge worriedly. “We’ve come to take you away.”

“We?” Harry asked curiously, the words making more sense as his head settled down. He knew that Dumbledore was going to send for him, but he was too out of sorts at the moment to work through it all.

Lupin smiled crookedly. “You’ll see. I told them to wait downstairs,” he explained. “Now, you wait here just a moment, while I get someone to pack your things. I’ll be back to help you.”

Harry tried to protest but his voice failed him as Lupin walked away. The excessive vomiting had made his throat awfully tender and sore. As voices started to murmur from the hall, he stood carefully and looked at himself in the mirror.

He really did look awful. Sweat beaded his forehead and his limp hair was even more untidy than usual. His pallor was very visible, his lips were dry and cracking, and dark circles drooped under tired, red eyes. Harry sighed and washed his face, hands and neck. After brushing his teeth, he felt much fresher and more awake.

He heard two people ascend the staircase, Lupin and someone else. Quickly, he flushed the toilet and cleaned up the majority of his mess, thankful that there wasn’t much.

Lupin stopped at the doorway and looked relieved when he saw that Harry was standing steadily.

“Well, I suppose you didn’t need my help, after all,” he said with a wry smile. “Come on, let’s help Tonks with your things.”

Harry walked with Lupin to his room, a faint grin on his lips. It was nice having wizards around again. When they entered, a pink haired witch was waving her wand, causing all of Harry’s things to fly into his trunk. She then proceeded to clean Hedwig’s cage of a summer’s worth of feathers and droppings.

Lupin laughed and stepped into the room. He looked at the trunk pointedly and grinned mischievously. “A bit disorganized, isn’t it?” he teased.

The woman rolled her eyes. “Like you could do better,” she groused, turning to look at Harry. “Wotcher!”

The young wizard smiled weakly before swallowing through a protesting and thick throat. His stomach still hadn’t settled completely and he really didn’t want to be sick in front of strangers.

“Oh!” Lupin said, jumping forward. “Sorry. Harry, this is Nymphadora —”

“ _Don’t_ call me Nymphadora, Remus,” said the witch with a shudder. “It’s Tonks.”

“ — Nymphadora Tonks, who prefers to be known by her surname only,” he finished with a smile.

“So would you if your fool of a mother had called you ‘Nymphadora,’” muttered Tonks.

Before Lupin could say anything, Harry intervened. “It’s nice to meet you. Thanks for my trunk.”

Tonks nodded. Lupin put a hand on her shoulders and started leading her out. “Where are we going?” she inquired indignantly.

Lupin ignored her and addressed Harry. “We’re going to be flying tonight, so I suggest that you dress warmly. I’ll be outside, so just call if you need any help,” he offered, giving Harry a look that dared him to protest.

“Alright,” Harry said, crouching over his trunk to find thick pants and a jumper. It was better for Lupin to think that he only had a stomach virus and needed to keep warm, rather than for him to suspect something much worse.

After donning warmer clothes, keeping his movements purposefully slow, Harry clasped his cloak and grabbed the Firebolt. He opened the door and saw Lupin leaning against the wall. His former professor nodded, came in and charmed Harry’s closed trunk to hover, steering it out of the room, with Hedwig’s cage in the other hand. Harry followed him downstairs, his footsteps echoing in the silence.

In the kitchen, Harry was introduced to the large group of witches and wizards who had come to retrieve him. “Hello,” Harry said, his voice still very hoarse. All of them turned to greet him, smiles on their faces.

Lupin started doing the introductions again, beginning with a familiar face. “Harry, this is Alastor Moody. And — ”

“Are you quite sure it’s him, Lupin?” Moody growled, his eye spinning towards him. “It’d be a nice lookout if we bring back some Death Eater impersonating him. We ought to ask him something only the real Potter would know. Unless anyone brought any Veritaserum?”

“Harry, what form does your Patronus take?” asked Lupin wearily.

“A stag,” said Harry nervously.

“That’s him, Mad-Eye,” said Lupin, quickly changing the subject. “Harry, this is Kingsley Shacklebolt,” he gestured to a tall, black wizard with a baldhead and a single gold hoop in his ear.

“Elphias Doge” — a wizard nodded at him and said hello in a wheezy-sounding voice — “Dedalus Diggle” — the wizard had a purple top hat that looked vaguely familiar — “Emmeline Vance” — a stately looking witch in an emerald-green shawl inclined her head — “Sturgis Podmore” — a square-jawed wizard with thick, straw-colored hair winked — “and Hestia Jones,” he finished, as a pink-cheeked, black haired witch waved from next to the toaster.

Harry greeted each one as they were introduced and wished that they weren’t all staring at him as if he were a specimen at the zoo.

“A surprising number of people volunteered to come and get you,” said Lupin, the corners of his mouth twitching as if he had read his mind.

“Yeah, well, the more the better,” Moody said darkly. “We’re your guard, Potter.”

“We’re just waiting for the signal to tell us it’s safe to set off,” said Lupin, glancing out of the kitchen window. “We’ve only got a few minutes, now.”

Harry nodded, putting his broom in a corner for just a moment. He needed a glass of water. When he got to the sink, Moody popped out his magical eye and asked for one as well. Harry gave it to him, sipping his own, and watched as the eye spun around, fizzing.

Moody had just popped his eye back in, which Harry was steadfastly ignoring for fear that the spinning would encourage his stomach to start up again, when Lupin explained that he was leaving a letter for the Dursleys. Harry told him it wasn’t necessary but he didn’t listen.

Moody then called him forward, saying he needed to ‘Disillusion’ him.

“You need to what?” Harry asked nervously.

“Disillusionment Charm,” said Moody, raising his wand. “Lupin says you’ve got an Invisibility Cloak, but it won’t stay on while we’re flying; this’ll disguise you better. Here you go — ”

Moody tapped Harry hard on the top of his head and a cold feeling trickled down his whole body from that point. He shivered through his jumper.

“Nice one, Mad-Eye,” said Tonks appreciatively, staring at Harry’s midsection.

Harry looked down, but didn’t see what looked like his body. It was as if he had taken on the texture and coloring of anything he was standing in front of. His eyes started playing tricks on him, so he refocused his attention by retrieving his broom.

“Come on,” said Moody, unlocking the back door with his wand. The entire group trooped outside, Harry’s trunk following.

“Clear night,” Moody grunted, his magical eye scanning everything. “Could’ve done with a bit more cloud cover. Right, you,” he barked at Harry, “we’re going to be flying in close formation. Tonks’ll be right in front of you, keep close on her tail. Lupin’ll be covering you from below. I’m going to be behind you. The rest’ll be circling us. We don’t break ranks for anything, got me? If one of us is killed — ”

Harry was suddenly very apprehensive. The wood was smooth under his fingers as he clutched his broom tighter. “Is that likely?” he asked, but Moody ignored him.

“— the others keep flying, don’t stop, don’t break ranks. If they take out all of us and you survive, Harry, the rear guard are standing by to take over; keep flying east and they’ll join you.”

“Stop being so cheerful, Mad-Eye, he’ll think we’re not taking this seriously,” said Tonks, as she strapped Harry’s trunk and Hedwig’s cage into a harness hanging from her broom.

“I’m just telling the boy the plan,” growled Moody. “Our job’s to deliver him safely to headquarters and if we die in the attempt — ”

“No one’s going to die,” said Kingsley Shacklebolt in a deep, calming voice. Harry lessened his grip on the Firebolt but wasn’t too reassured. He might not die now, but in a few months…

A shower of bright red sparks flared up into the sky. To Muggles they would look like firecrackers without the sound, but Harry recognized them at once as wand sparks. At Lupin’s call, he swung his right leg over his broom, gripped its handle tightly and felt it vibrate. He was as eager as it was to be in the air again, but Harry wished he felt better than he did. His upper arms felt weak and his grip was not as firm as usual. His head felt heavy and he yawned involuntarily.

“Second signal, let’s go!” said Lupin loudly, as green sparks exploded.

Harry kicked off from the ground, as hard as he could—which wasn’t very. Cool night air caressed his face and ran through his hair as they rapidly ascended. The feeling of flying pushed all thoughts of cancer and his worry over the Ministry hearing aside, even if his physical complaints were not swept away so easily.

Onward they flew, Moody calling out instructions as they went. When Moody wanted to hide in the clouds, Harry was very happy that Tonks refused. He was cold enough already, his hands beyond numb on the Firebolt’s handle. It was also getting harder and harder to steer as the wind buffeted his body; he had lost an awful lot of weight since the summer started and his strength was quickly fading. Harry really hoped that they’d be touching down soon.

He was practically dreaming of a warm bath and bed when Moody shouted over the wind.

“We ought to double back for a bit, just to make sure we’re not being followed!”

“ARE YOU MAD, MAD-EYE?” Tonks screamed from the front. “We’re all frozen to our brooms! If we keep going off course we’re not going to get there until next week! We’re nearly there now!”

Harry’s numb ears took that in and he sighed in relief. If he had to be out here much longer, he’d fall off his broom!

“Time to start the descent!” came Lupin’s voice. “Follow Tonks, Harry!”

He was only too happy to obey as they dived. He focused on breathing slowly as his stomach churned. The large collection of lights grew larger and soon Harry was able to see individual houses and streetlamps.

“Here we go!” called Tonks and seconds later his feet touched the ground.

Harry dismounted in the middle of a small square and shivered as his body started warming up. He swayed slightly as the blood drained from his head to his frozen legs. Leaning on his broom, he saw Tonks unbuckle his trunk from the harness. The other wizards started landing around him and Harry looked reassuringly at Lupin who came forward to help the unsteady teenager.

“Where are we?” Harry asked with a violent shiver. The gloomy street did not look promising.

Lupin looked around, quietly saying, “In a minute.”

Moody rummaged in his cloak and pulled out a silver cigarette lighter. He raised it in the air and clicked it numerous times, each time turning out a streetlamp. Soon the only light came from the windows of the houses and the moon above them.

“Borrowed it from Dumbledore,” Moody growled, pocketing the Put-Outer. “That’ll take care of any Muggles looking out of the windows, see? Now, come on, quick.”

He led Harry by the arm to the houses across the road. Lupin and Tonks carried Harry’s trunk behind them, followed by the rest of the armed guards.

Harry stood next to him, yawning twice and nearly gagging on the strong odor coming from the rotting rubbish sitting just inside a broken gate.

Moody forced Harry to take a piece of parchment and held his lit wand next to it so Harry could read the message. “Here,” he said. “Read quickly and memorize.”

Harry looked at it and read the narrow, familiar handwriting. It said:

 _The headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix may be found at number twelve, Grimmauld Place, London._  

“What’s the Order of the —?” Harry tried to ask, but Moody snapped at him.

“Not here, boy!” snarled Moody. “Wait till we’re inside!” He proceeded to burn the parchment with fire from his wand.

Harry looked at the house in front of him; it was number eleven. To the left of it was number ten and to his right was thirteen. Where was number twelve, Grimmauld Place?

Suddenly a battered door emerged out of nowhere between eleven and thirteen. Everything else squeezed out after it, as if the entire house was being inflated. Harry gaped. The excitement sent a shiver down his spine, making him more alert than he’d been all evening. 

“Come on, hurry,” Moody said, prodding him painfully in the back. The entire group was ushered up the steps to a door with no keyhole. Lupin tapped the door with his wand and after a series of locks clicked, the door opened with a creak.

“Get in quick, Harry,” Lupin whispered. “But don’t go far inside and don’t touch anything.”

Harry obeyed, wrinkling his nose at the damp, dusty and sweetish rotting smell that surrounded him. The rest of the group filed in with Moody at the threshold. He released the Put-Outer and all the lights flew back into the streetlamps before he came inside.

“Here — ” he said, hitting Harry on the head again. This time, a warm trickling sensation came over his body, indicating a release of the Disillusionment Charm. Moody then whispered. “Now stay still, everyone, while I give us a bit of light in here.”

Uneasiness stirred in Harry’s stomach. Why were they being so quiet? The gas lamps lining the walls, hissed as they lit up, illuminating a dilapidated hallway. The teenager took a good look around, feeling off about the décor.

Hurried footsteps at the far end of the hall revealed a smiling Mrs. Weasley. Harry was saddened at how thin and pale she had gotten since he last saw her just over a month ago. Granted, the same could be said about him. 

“Oh, Harry, it’s lovely to see you!” she whispered, pulling him into a very tight hug. She then held him at arm’s length and examined him critically. Mrs. Weasley frowned. “Dear, are you feeling alright? You’re looking awfully peaky…”

Harry smiled weakly and shivered. The hallway felt drafty to him. Before he could answer, Mrs. Weasley turned to address the wizards and witches behind him.

“He’s just arrived, the meeting’s started…” she said urgently. The group moved to the door at the end of the hall. Harry tried to follow Lupin, but Mrs. Weasley held him back. “No, Harry, the meeting’s only for members of the Order. Ron and Hermione are upstairs; you can wait with them until the meeting’s over. Try to get some rest. I’ll come up for you after and we’ll have some dinner.” As an after thought, she added, “And keep your voice down in the hall.”

“Why?”

“I don’t want to wake anything up.”

“What d’you —?”

“I’ll explain later, I’ve got to hurry. I’m supposed to be at the meeting — I’ll just show you where you’re sleeping.”

Harry wanted to protest, but he was also reluctant to give up a chance at sleep. The adrenaline was wearing off and he felt more tired than before. So he gave in and followed Ron’s mother down the hall and up a dark staircase. There were shriveled house-elf heads mounted on the walls and the gloominess sent a different sort of shiver up his spine. What were they doing in a house that clearly belonged to Dark Wizards?

“Mrs. Weasley, why —?”

“Ron and Hermione will explain everything, dear. I’ve really got to dash,” she whispered distractedly. “There, you’re the door on the right. Get some sleep and I’ll call you when it’s over.”

And she hurried off downstairs again.

Harry sighed and tiredly opened the door.

 

* * *

 

 

As Sirius ushered them through the doorway, Harry stepped into the dully-lit room that served as kitchen, dining room and Order meeting room. The only light was coming from the burning fireplace, and a haze of smoke clouded the upper atmosphere. The table, crammed with chairs, was strewn with parchment, goblets and wine bottles. A pile of rags that smelled oddly familiar lay at one end as Mr. Weasley and Bill talked quietly at the other.

Mrs. Weasley immediately took charge, startling Mr. Weasley and Bill. As the former greeted him kindly and with vigorous handshaking, Bill hastily gathered up the parchment still left on the table.

“Journey all right, Harry?” Bill called, trying to hold twelve scrolls at once. “Mad-Eye didn’t make you come via Greenland, then?”

“He tried,” said Tonks, striding over to help Bill and immediately sending a candle toppling onto the last piece of parchment. “Oh no — _sorry —_ ”

“Here, dear,” said Mrs. Weasley, in a frustrated tone as she repaired the parchment with a wave of her wand. Harry spotted the outline of a building when the light illuminated the scroll.

Mrs. Weasley spotted his glance and snatched the plan off the table, stuffing it into Bill’s already full arms.

“This sort of thing ought to be cleared away promptly at the end of meetings,” she snapped before sweeping off to an ancient dresser for the dinner plates.

Sirius ushered Harry to a chair as Bill vanished the scrolls. “Sit down, Harry. You’ve met Mundungus, haven’t you?”

The pile of rags snored and promptly jerked awake. “Some’n say m’ name?” Mundungus mumbled sleepily. “I ‘gree with Sirius…”

Harry smiled and Ginny giggled as Mundungus tried to ‘vote’.

“The meeting’s over, Dung,” said Sirius, as everyone else joined them at the table. “Harry’s arrived.”

“Eh?” asked Mundungus as he eyed Harry. “Blimey, so ‘e ‘as. Yeah… you all right, ‘arry?”

“Yeah.”

Mundungus proceeded to pull out a pipe and be scolded by Mrs. Weasley. When he had put away the pipe and cleared the green smoke, Ron’s mother asked for assistance in the kitchen.

Harry stood up to help but Mrs. Weasley insisted that he sit down. Gratefully, he sank down in the chair. As loathe as he was to admit it, he was exhausted from the aftermath of his weekly treatments and the journey to London. Ron and Hermione’s presence and his added anger over his unanswered questions had kept him from getting much-needed sleep. His only relief that whole evening was the abatement of nausea.

Soon, Harry was left with only Sirius and Mundungus at the table as everyone else scurried around at Mrs. Weasley’s command. He chatted with Sirius, noting uncomfortably that his godfather seemed more put out and cynical than before. However, they shared a mutual dislike of Dumbledore, which brightened Harry’s spirits a bit.

And after a touch of mayhem, courtesy of the twins, and a rather large bruise on Harry’s elbow from knocking into the floor, they all sat down for a very quiet dinner.

While the others chatted amongst themselves, Harry eyed the normalcy of the evening. He was surrounded by his friends and godfather and they were _happy_. Well, not perfectly happy, with the thought of war just on the horizon but happier than they would be if he told them he was dying. Harry just wanted to live the next few months like this: with them not pitying him, not mourning before he was dead and just living as best they could with Voldemort around.

A gale of laughter from the middle of the table pulled Harry out of his thoughts. Fred, George, and Ron were rolling around in their seats as Mundungus exalted on his latest escapade. Harry smiled as Dung delivered his punch line.

Mrs. Weasley proceeded to scold the thief, yet again, and got up to retrieve the pudding, passing on a nasty look to Sirius.

Harry turned a raised eyebrow to his godfather and Sirius explained that Mrs. Weasley was only angry with Mundungus because he slipped off duty while tailing him. Harry gulped when he realized how angry she would be with him when he finally told them that he was sick. She was going to be furious.

After a helping of the crumble, Harry had to put down his spoon and refused seconds. He was already feeling awfully full from the hearty stew and didn’t think he could stomach much more. Everyone else had several more helpings and eventually they all were leaning back in their chairs, looking full, relaxed and sleepy.

“Nearly time for bed, I think,” said Mrs. Weasley with a yawn.

“Not just yet, Molly,” said Sirius, pushing away his empty plate and turning to look at Harry. “You know, I’m surprised at you. I thought the first thing you’d do when you got here would be to start asking questions about Voldemort.”

The atmosphere changed with the rapidity Harry associated with the arrival of Dementors. Where seconds before it had been sleepily relaxed, it was now alert, even tense. Lupin lowered his goblet, forgoing his sip of wine, and looked wary.

“I did!” Harry said, looking around the table. “I asked Ron and Hermione but they said we’re not allowed in the Order, so —”

“And they’re quite right,” said Mrs. Weasley. “You’re too young.” She was sitting upright in her chair, her fists clenched on its arms, no drowsiness to be seen.

Heat filled his stomach and Harry was sure that it was rising to his face. Too young. _Too young_.

“Since when did someone have to be in the Order of the Phoenix to ask questions?” asked Sirius. “Harry’s been trapped in that Muggle house for a month. He’s got the right to know what’s been happen —”

“Hang on!” George interrupted loudly.

“How come Harry gets his questions answered?” said Fred angrily.

“ _We’ve_ been trying to get stuff out of you for a month and you haven’t told us a single stinking thing!” said George.

“‘ _You’re too young, you’re not in the Order_ ,’” imitated Fred, sounding uncannily like his mother. “Harry’s not even of age!”

The words stung him slightly, but a dark voice within him repeated his diagnosis. He had a disease that might possibly kill him before he became of age… of course, Voldemort could do the same thing with two whispered words.

“It’s not my fault you haven’t been told what the Order’s doing,” said Sirius calmly. “That’s your parents’ decision. Harry, on the other hand —”

 _Can make my own decisions_ , Harry thought, remembering his treatments. He had made the choice to start them. He had forged his uncle’s signature. He had been taking care of himself since he was a baby and if he was going to deal with his own death, then he should be able to decide if he was old enough to hear what Voldemort was up to.

“It’s not down to you to decide what’s good for Harry!” said Mrs. Weasley sharply. Her normally kind face looked dangerous. “You haven’t forgotten what Dumbledore said, I suppose?”

“Which bit?” Sirius asked politely, but with an air as though readying himself for a fight.

“The bit about not telling Harry more than he _needs to know_ ,” said Mrs. Weasley with emphasis.

 _Too young. More than he needs to know_. The anger in his stomach snapped and Harry stood up, pushing his chair back forcefully. “ _Stop it!_ ” he shouted, a darkness twisting his features.

Everyone at the table was shocked, not just that Harry interrupted, but that he had stopped an argument between Sirius Black and Molly Weasley.

“Stop. Fighting,” Harry said coolly, the iciness in his voice not doing a bit to calm the wrath raging in his stomach. “I have been captured, tortured and nearly killed. I almost had my soul sucked out of me four days ago! I’m NOT a child and I deserve to know what’s going on!”

He looked at the adults and the burning rose to his chest. 

“Voldemort has gotten his hands on me before, and he can do it again, and you lot are just making it easier for him!” Harry shouted, throwing his hands in the air. “I’m not an idiot. _We’re_ not idiots! And I’m his number one target. And even though you think I’m _too young_ to be in the Order and I’m _too young_ to fight against Voldemort, I am not too young to _die_!”

The fire inside him began to cool, now just smoldering. He glared fiercely around the table and waited for anyone to speak. At last, Remus cleared his throat.

“Well,” he said. “I think Harry’s made his point. He’s old enough to decide for himself.”

Harry refused to look at Mrs. Weasley, partly from shame and mostly because he didn’t want to lose his nerve.

“Very well,” she said shakily. “Ginny, Ron, Hermione, Fred, George — I want you out of this kitchen, now.”

His friends immediately began to protest.

“We’re of age!” Fred and George shouted together.

“If Harry’s allowed, why can’t I?” Ron argued.

“Mum, I _want_ to!” Ginny wailed.

“NO!” Mrs. Weasley shouted, rising to her feet. “I absolutely forbid —”

Mr. Weasley proceeded to argue in Fred and George’s favor, granting them permission to stay.

“Ron — ,” Mrs. Weasley began, but Ron interrupted.

“Harry’ll tell me and Hermione everything you say anyway!” said Ron heatedly. “Won’t — won’t you?” he added nervously, meeting Harry’s eyes.

The dark voice within him, that had made so many decisions as of late, reared up and nearly convinced him to deny his friends the information. But sense and reason charged in when he gazed into Ron’s deep blue eyes. He couldn’t do that to his friend.

“’Course I will,” Harry said, generating simultaneous grins from Ron and Hermione.

“Fine!” Mrs. Weasley yelled. “Fine! Ginny — BED!”

A small tinge of guilt wiggled in his stomach as they heard Ginny shout and rage at her mother all the way up to her room. He could very well have spoken up for her, but Harry knew it was safer for them all if she heard the information secondhand, later. Mrs. Weasley would not take kindly to letting them all hear what Sirius and Lupin had to say.

After Lupin had silenced the portraits woken up by Ginny, and they all had settled down around the table, Sirius spoke.

“Okay, Harry … what do you want to know?”

 

* * *

 

 

“Like a weapon. Something he didn’t have the last time,” Sirius said.

“When he was powerful before?”

“Yes.”

“Like what kind of weapon?” asked Harry. “Something worse than the _Avada Kedavra_ — ?”

“That’s enough.”

Just when they were getting to the actual information, Mrs. Weasley tried to stop Sirius and Lupin. She was standing in the shadows next to the door. Harry hadn’t noticed her come back, but her arms were crossed and she was furious.

“I want you in bed, now. All of you,” she said, looking around at Fred, George, Ron and Hermione.

“You can’t boss us — ” Fred began.

“Watch me,” she snarled. She trembled slightly as she looked at Sirius. “You’ve given Harry plenty of information. Any more and you might just as well induct him into the Order straightaway.”

“No he hasn’t,” Harry said calmly, standing up. “All I’ve found out is that Dumbledore’s assembled the Order, that the Order’s talking to people and that the Ministry’s afraid of Voldemort. That’s obvious! What sort of weapon does Voldemort want?”

Mrs. Weasley looked apoplectic with rage. “That information is for Order members only,” she seethed, “and since you lot are not in the Order, you are not privy to it.”

Rage writhed in Harry’s belly, but before he could argue further, Lupin spoke.

“She’s right, Harry,” he said. “The Order is comprised only of overage wizards. Wizards who have left school,” he added pointedly. “There are dangers involved of which you can have no idea, any of you… I think Molly’s right, Sirius. We’ve said enough.”

Harry watched as Sirius shrugged, defeated in his argument. The anger seeped into his bones at the unfairness of the situation. But when all his friends had gotten to their feet, Harry reluctantly rose too. Mrs. Weasley frog marched the lot of them upstairs, a grim look on her face.

Once he and Ron had been left in their room and the twins had stopped by for a visit, Harry let the anger within him subside. Exhaustion seeped through him and he let himself fall into a deep sleep.


	6. Orders and Diaries

Harry fully intended to ask Sirius for more information but Mrs. Weasley, probably knowing what Harry wanted to do, kept a beady eye on all of them for the next week. The whole lot of them were pushed into cleaning the house, most likely to keep them occupied and out of mischief. But the Weasley matriarch was even more effective at keeping them from spying on the Order.

The house was a beehive of activity for the resistance movement and members would enter and leave at all hours of the day. Often, they would linger in the hallway or the kitchen, discussing all their secrets in a bare whisper.

The one time he had managed to slip away from Mrs. Weasley, Harry had crouched near the stairs to try and catch snippets of the conversation. Unfortunately, his best friend’s mother caught on quickly and roped him back into the infested rooms for another go before he could hear anything important.

“What’d you hear mate?” Ron asked quietly, leaning his head slightly towards Harry as they pulled items out of a cabinet in the drawing room. His best friend frowned at a silver cup that looked like it must have once contained blood before he chucked it over his shoulder.

“Rubbish,” Harry practically growled as he yanked out an ornately-carved wooden box. “Your mum found me before I could get anything good. Tonks was whispering something to another witch—Emmeline, I think her name was?—but I couldn’t hear her over Kingsley. He was telling Sirius about how he got a load of Aurors to ransack an abandoned toy store for Sirius. Someone had rigged all the plush toys to attack intruders. Was pretty funny apparently.”

Ron huffed exasperatedly and chucked yet another silver-what’s-it. “Rotten luck. Have you had a chance to talk to Sirius yet? Maybe he’ll tell us something.”

Harry shook his head and grabbed for a silver locket that was just out of reach. “Not yet. Every time I try to talk to him, someone has something for one of us to do. It’s a conspiracy.” He exchanged a frustrated look with Ron.

“You’d think that they would know better by now,” Ron said absently. “They lock us in this ruddy place with nothing to do but clean and do homework, and then wave this gigantic big secret and say, you don’t get to know what it is; it’s like begging us to just go and snoop! And with the three of us, you’d really think that they would know better than to give us that temptation.”

“That’s a very good point, Ron,” Hermione said, out of nowhere. Both boys jumped as they hadn’t seen her sit next to them. “Honestly, aside from the danger of Death Eaters, what have we got here that we couldn’t get at home?”

Harry shrugged. “I dunno. But this keeping us out of it for our ‘own good’ is rubbish. Why won’t they just listen to me?”

He sighed, turning a silver locket over in his hand. It had a snake on the front, curved into a S-shape. He tried opening it but the lid wouldn’t budge. Harry grunted, trying to pry it loose without success.

“What’s that?” Ron asked.

“Some sort of locket,” Harry said, trying one more time. “I can’t get it open.”

“Here, let me try,” Ron offered, holding out a freckled and dirty hand. Harry passed it over, but Ron seemed to have less luck than him.

“It’s probably charmed or something,” Hermione suggested, holding out a hand. “Maybe Mrs. Weasley could open it?”

“Nah,” Harry said, taking the locket from Ron. “I’m just going to chuck it. It’s probably empty anyway.”

“Probably is,” Sirius offered from behind him. “It looks like something my brother had once,” he said from afar. “He probably left it here before he died. I’d just chuck it, if I were you.”

Harry threw it into the growing pile of discarded goblets, jewelry and knick-knacks that had been hiding in the cabinet.

Sirius eased himself down beside the teenagers and looked into their faces. “I know what you want,” he said suddenly. “And I really do believe that you are right in wanting to know. But I’m not allowed to tell you.” He gave Harry a regretful smile. “Dumbledore’s orders for you, Harry and Hermione, and your mum’s for you Ron.”

Harry scowled and looked at his fingers. They were long and black grease coated his finger tips like oily slime. The rubbish had definitely made his hands dirty.

Sirius had paused for a moment but his hoarse voice brought Harry’s head up again. “Everyone else wants you to just enjoy the next year and focus on school. I know that’s not what you’re concerned about and it’s no fun to be told to keep your nose clean. But that’s what you need to do. Stay out of trouble,” he said quietly.

Harry shrugged and nodded slowly with his friends, outwardly showing only regret. Inside, he was glaring, fuming and yelling curses at his godfather, the Order and Dumbledore. He was so sick of their molly-coddling!

Sirius left, dully accepting the teenagers’ responses, knowing that his little speech made no difference. They were still going to do whatever they could to find out as much as they could. He let a small grin creep on his face. Good for them.

 

* * *

 

Harry bit his lip as he craned his head around the corner. His eyes swiveled left and right, quickly determining that no one was around. He padded to the second door on his left, wincing at the loud creaks and moans that the floorboards made when he accidentally trod on a weak spot. At last, he eased the door open, edged his way in and shut the door.

Harry turned and sighed. The dusty smell of old, moldy books and dark, dirty corners shot up his nose as he gazed around the library. He hurriedly walked through the stacks, looking for something that might give him information on magical travel. Muttering absently to himself, Harry grew more and more panicked as he came up with nothing. Just as he was about to give up hope of ever finding something, he stumbled upon a small collection of five books that had “Travel” in their titles.

Three were books on time travel ( _How to Curse Your Enemies Before They Are Born: An Exercise of Time Travel_ ) and another was on magic carpet spells ( _Carpet Travel Made Easy_ ). But the last one sounded plausible. It was titled, _Magical Transportation_ _for Trolls_ , and sounded like the very book Harry needed.

Pulling it off the shelf, he quickly thumbed to the index, glancing down the list of topics to find the one that he needed. There! A grin stretched across his face in victory. He tucked the book in the crook of his arm and snuck back out of the library. There would be hell to pay if he was caught in here unsupervised and Harry wasn’t willing to tempt fate for too long.

It wasn’t until he was safely in his and Ron’s room, that he cracked open the book to find the section he needed.

 _Portkeys are made using the spell_ Portus (POR-tus) _, which is performed by pointing your wand at the object for enchantment and saying the spell while imagining the destination clearly. If the charm is done correctly, the object will glow blue and shake for a moment before it settles down. Typically,_ Portus _is used for single-trip travel, as the object needs to be re-charmed before it can be used again. However, by using the spell_ Portus Redeunt (POR-tus re-DE-unt) _and thinking of first the destination and then the departure point, the castor may charm the object to make a return journey. The number of journeys made before the charm needs to be re-done depends on the strength of the charm and the castor._

_The Department of Magical Transportation’s Portkey Office regulates and monitors the creation and use of Portkeys in Magical Britain. Portkeys are typically made from Muggle rubbish (objects on the Registry of Proscribed Charmable Objects), as decreed in 1934, to prevent the use of Portkeys by Muggles. One such incident that resulted in the formation of this law, was the sudden appearance of a Muggle pickpocket in the Minister of Magic’s bath when he picked the pocket of a Ministry Liaison Officer._

_Portkeys have been used in transportation for large events such as the Quidditch World Cup and were once used for transport for underage wizards to Hogwarts, after the imposition of the Statue of Secrecy in 1692. This practice did not continue because, for one reason, a third of students missed or could not locate their Portkeys and, secondly, many children were overcome with hysteria and nausea._

Harry copied down the bit about the spells and closed the book. Thinking it over, he had realized that the only logical way to travel to a Muggle hospital while he was at Hogwarts, was by Portkey.

He couldn’t Apparate or Floo from the castle and he couldn’t sneak to Hogsmeade every week to do it either, as that would be too noticeable. For similar reasons, he couldn’t take the Knight Bus as he’d be recognized on such a regular route and it would be dangerous with Voldemort out there. Muggle transportation was out as there were no trains or buses anywhere near Hogwarts or Hogsmeade.

Therefore, the only logical method was to make a Portkey. If he created one in Hogwarts, it probably wouldn’t be detected and with the second spell, he could avoid more Underage Wizardry notices.

The only flaw with his plan lay in the next three weeks. Because the Order had prematurely seized him from the Dursleys, Harry had lost the anonymity that his relatives had given him. As a result, he would have to figure out a way to get around the Order, Mrs. Weasley, Sirius and his friends for three to four hours without getting caught. While on lockdown.

Harry groaned and flopped back onto his bed. The mattress’s springs dug slightly into his bony back. He had lost weight over the last few months but it wasn’t as obvious to Harry before his flight to Grimmauld Place. This summer had been less taxing than most, as he didn’t have as many chores at the Dursleys and ate more food, thanks to his wages at the hospital. His growth spurt had given an excuse for the pinched and unhealthy look that was common for growing teenage boys. His past experiences with the food-related punishments his relatives meted out and the little time he spent looking in the mirror had given Harry little reason to see anything different about this summer.

Of course, that didn’t keep Mrs. Weasley from trying to stuff him with food as often as she could. Harry didn’t think it was humanly possible to have a hollow leg, but with the number of servings she gave him, he would have to develop one just to hide it all. Luckily, Ron had enough legs for the two of them, as Harry had so far been able to shove food on his friend’s plate when Mrs. Weasley wasn’t looking. Sirius had caught him in the act a few times and nearly choked laughing at Harry’s mournful look when Molly filled his plate for a fourth time.

Shoving the thick text under his bed—he’d return it later—Harry went to his trunk and pulled out his mother’s diary. He’d been steadily reading the leather bound books and had arrived at his birth in no time. His mother’s handwriting had improved as she got older and her entries grew longer, especially after she had started dating his father. Harry relished the bits he learned about his parents, like how his dad had taken Divination and Muggle Studies up through fifth year and how his mum liked the color purple even though it clashed with her hair color.

Harry flopped back on the bed and cracked open the book. Mrs. Weasley had given the rest of them the afternoon off while she and some of the other adults in the house removed the curses and hexes from some dangerous objects they found in one of the spare bedrooms. She didn’t want them cleaning, just in case, so off they went. Hermione was helping Ron do some of his summer homework, some that Harry had already finished, so he had been given some time alone—something that was incredibly hard to find in Grimmauld Place.

This had given him the opportunity to sneak into the Black Library as well as finish his mother’s diaries. As he got steadily closer to 31 October, 1981, he was both apprehensive and curious to know what had happened when his parents were in hiding.

So Harry read. Most of the entries were about him and his father and all of the things his mother did to keep busy in their little cottage. His mother had stuck small photographs of the three of them in her diary, one particular one documented his first steps. Harry wistfully watched as his younger self stumbled into his father’s waiting arms and was then hugged warmly by the man with messy hair and glasses. Another of his favorites had him ‘helping’ his mum bake cookies with flour in his hair and on his nose.

Focusing on the entries, Harry frowned as he read several entries in March of his parents’ last year.

_13 March, 1981_

_I woke up this morning feeling ill, so James occupied Harry downstairs while I slept. I don’t feel much better, even though I’ve spent the whole day in bed, but hopefully I’ll be able to get up tomorrow. James is not the best housekeeper and the last time I was away from home for a few days, the house was a pigsty when I returned!_

_Anyway, James promised to bring Harry up to see me before he goes down for the evening, so I’ll be able to kiss my baby goodnight. He’s been such a darling for his daddy all day and I hope that our luck will hold out when it comes to bedtime._

_-Lily_

_17 March, 1981_

_I am still feeling unwell after four days and James is incredibly worried. I have been feeling slightly better in the mornings, but find myself in bed again by the late afternoon as my energy drops. He wants me to see a Healer at St. Mungo’s but we both know that leaving the house while in hiding is dangerous, especially to go to a high-profile place such as a hospital. I’m sure this is just a Muggle flu or something. James panics easily._

_James has been doing a wonderful job with the house, something I never imagined possible. He’s definitely using magic, Vanishing Charms were always his specialty, but as long as the house is clean, I don’t mind. Harry’s been fussing more often as he’s missing me. I don’t want to get him ill but I do miss playing with my baby._

_-Lily_

_25 March, 1981_

_I am feeling much better now and have been spending the whole day out of bed for a few days now, to James’ relief, but I’ve kept quiet about how tired I feel all the time. I haven’t been very hungry and I’ve lost some weight but most of that was post-baby fat anyway. I don’t want James to worry but I am concerned that this is something more serious than the flu. If I don’t feel better soon, I’ll have to risk going to St. Mungo’s._

_-Lily_

_1 April, 1981_

_James is always a nightmare on April Fool’s Day. He charmed my hair to match my eyes and gave Harry a clown nose. Thankfully, he isn’t as outlandish as he was back in school, but I worry about the day when Harry grows up enough to wield a wand. His father will have him charming robes pink before he can levitate a feather!_

_Harry and I spent a lovely afternoon baking scones. He loves playing with the flour and, of course, eating the scones! Just like his father! I had to get James to do the washing just to get him out of the kitchen while the scones cooled. If I didn’t, he would have eaten the whole tray before Harry and I got even one._

_Sirius, Remus and Peter will be visiting soon, according to Sirius, as they haven’t seen us in almost two months. I’m just glad that I am over that bug from last month or I wouldn’t have the energy to keep up with the four of them and Harry. Thank goodness they didn’t come today or I really would have lost my mind with all the Marauders on April Fool’s Day!_

_-Lily_

His mother had been ill? It sounded a little too familiar to be comfortable. Continuing on, he found little to worry about until he came to July 15th, two weeks before his first birthday.

_15 July, 1981_

_I’ve been feeling off for a week or so but today I couldn’t get out of bed. James has been worried because I’m running a slight fever but I’m sure it’s just because I’m run down. Perhaps I caught what Remus had the last time he visited? I’m quite tired, so I think I’ll finish this for today._

_-Lily_

_20 July, 1981_

_I don’t think I have Remus’ cold. My fever’s gone but I’m still feeling weak and my joints ache an awful lot. I’ve also got these nasty bruises on my back, but I have no idea where they came from. James has been run ragged trying to care for me, Harry and the house. Harry was colic-y last night and no one got much sleep. James’s old school things are all over the room, as he gutted his trunk to find something new to amuse Harry with. I barely have the energy to lift my wand, let alone help clean up the mess. We’re both worried but with the threat of Voldemort growing, it might be too dangerous to leave the house._

_There is talk of a traitor in the Order, Remus said, and people are pointing fingers at each other. James is worried, I can tell, but now that Harry’s asleep for the day, I hope that he can get some as well._

_He’s returning to bed, so I’ll nap with him._

_-Lily_

_23 July, 1981_

_I’m feeling stronger than before and can stay awake for longer, but I still find myself retiring to bed for a few hours in the afternoon. James and I discussed St. Mungo’s but I convinced him to wait for another week or so. This could be something similar to what I had back in March and I’m sure it will go away soon._

_Harry is doing much better and James is eagerly planning his birthday party. Sirius, Remus and Peter all are invited and I’ll bake a cake on the 30 th. James hasn’t had much of a chance to buy him gifts, but Sirius promised to do the shopping for us, so James is preparing it. I’ve also added some sensible toys to it but I’m afraid that we are probably spoiling Harry a bit too much. The list is already 10 items long! But I don’t want Harry to miss out on a lovely birthday and because of the Fidelius, we haven’t had much opportunity to buy him new toys in the last six months._

_There is another thing that has been worrying me. When Harry had that bout of colic, I picked up an old deck of Tarot cards that James had left lying around. I was a bit sick of reading, so I was just doing Tarot readings for the fun of it, but something odd kept coming up. Every time I did a reading, the cards were always the same! No matter what I did, no matter how often I shuffled, I would get the same cards. I thought that James might have charmed them but he said he hadn’t. I don’t believe in all that Divination rot but maybe this is something worth looking into…_

_I should probably go and check that James hasn’t put a broomstick on the list, as he’s been wanting to buy one since Harry was born!_

_-Lily_

_1 August, 1981_

_A lot has happened since I last wrote an entry._

_Harry’s birthday was lovely even though the boys couldn’t come. Something came up with the Order and so it was just us and Bathilda, who was quite a dear. My boy just loved his presents and Sirius gave him a toy broomstick that he absolutely adored. He nearly killed the cat and managed to smash that horrid vase from Petunia._

_James has been restless again, even though Peter came to visit last weekend while I was ill. They had a good time together, but I can tell that James misses being outside this house. If only Dumbledore would return his cloak… then perhaps James wouldn’t be so anxious. We’d also be able to make a trip to St. Mungo’s for me._

_I’ve been feeling off still and I’m worried. My hands have started shaking and I am constantly running a temperature. I can barely eat anything and I’ve lost a lot of weight. Peter remarked on it when he visited but James told him I’ve been ill._

_I’ve looked into that Tarot card reading and I’m afraid that I might know what’s going to happen. The cards say that I’m dying. That I will die soon, within weeks. Now, it all sounds like rubbish and maybe I’m just paranoid because I’m scared but something tells me that it’s the truth._

_The cards also say something else but I’m not sure what they mean. There’s going to be an attack, I think, in another few months and two people will die then. I’m not sure what it all means but I’ve told James. Maybe he will understand it, as he actually took Divination._

_Diary, I worry about our future. What’s going to happen to us? Will we survive this war?_

_Just in case, I’ve started gathering a trunk together. I’m putting some things in it for Harry, just in case something happens to me or to James. I’ve told him about it as well, so I’m sure he’ll put some letters in. We haven’t written wills but Sirius knows what is to be done in case something happens to us and I know he’ll handle it if the time comes._

_Peter told us that the Order thinks the spy is in our group. Sirius and Peter think it’s Remus but I can’t believe that any of our friends would side with Voldemort! I know he hasn’t been around that much but that’s no excuse to doubt Remus._

_I should go, Harry’s crying and I think James is probably too exhausted to get him._

_-Lily_

That was the last entry. Harry flipped the remaining pages and looked around for more but couldn’t find anything. A chill ran down his spine and he swallowed thickly. He had a horrible feeling that he knew what happened to his mother. Rooting around in the trunk, he pulled out the letters. Maybe his dad wrote something there…

Finding the oldest one, Harry started reading. The first two letters were started around his first birthday and were light-hearted. The third letter was harder to read. Harry’s throat constricted and he could barely read the letter through the water in his eyes.

His mother died. She’d been ill for little over a month and just grew horribly worse after his birthday. Her hands shook so much that she couldn’t hold a pen and she could barely eat. His dad had been out of his mind with worry. James had been able to call a Healer through Bathilda but the Healer couldn’t do anything to help her, as her illness was inexplicable. The Healer had given his dad some potions but they only worked to ease his mother’s pain and to keep her alive a little bit longer.

The ink on the letter was smeared with dried tears and the parchment was growing wet from Harry’s contribution. His mother had died and he had a feeling that he had the same disease. Leukaemia. It wasn’t something wizards would be familiar with and it did work quickly. Many of the symptoms she described were ones he had experienced in the last six weeks and he knew from the pamphlets at the hospital that leukaemia affected people through 21 years of age. His mother was 21 at the time.

Harry carefully put away his father’s letters for the time being. Curling up on his bed, he hugged his knees to his chest and let fat tears leak out of his eyes. His glasses sat haphazardly on his bedside table and Harry processed this new information.

His head ached by the time his face dried and Harry had exhausted himself. Without realizing it, he slipped off into a restless sleep where he heard his mother scream and saw a flash of green light.

 

* * *

 

 

“Harry?” a voice called out to him from the dark depths of his dream. “Harry, wake up!”

“Geroff,” Harry mumbled, batting away the annoying and insisting hand on his shoulder.

“Harry, come on!” a familiar voice said. “Mum says it’s time for dinner and if you don’t get up she’ll think you’re ill or something. Wake up!”

Groggily, Harry forced his eyes open to blink lazily at the red-orange blur in front of his face. “Whatisit?” he asked, rubbing his eyes with one hand and reaching for his glasses with the other.

“Dinner,” Ron said simply, appeased that his friend was awake. “You have enough time to wash up if you want.”

Harry yawned and stretched a little. “Yeah, I’ll do that,” he mumbled, getting up for the toilet. “Be right down.”

Ron chuckled and said something in agreement before going in the other direction. Harry’s head was too thick with sleep to remember what his friend said, so he decided that it probably wasn’t that important anyway.

Stumbling into the loo, Harry washed his face and brushed his teeth. That always made him feel more awake after a long nap. Blinking at his reflection, Harry thought dully that something was important…. “Oh, right!” he muttered to himself, digging into his pocket.

He had to take three doses of prednisone a day for nearly a month, which he took orally. It was easiest to take it before meals, since those happened three times a day anyway. Popping it into his mouth, he swallowed it down with a handful of water. He shuddered and tucked the orange canister in his pocket once more.

His stomach growling noisily, Harry followed his nose to the kitchen. His friends were already seated, the table was set and Mrs. Weasley looked to be setting the last of the food out on the table.

“Harry! Come, sit down, we’re just about to start,” Mrs. Weasley said with a smile.

“Thanks Mrs. Weasley,” Harry answered, plopping down between Ron and Sirius.

Hermione and Ginny were sitting across from him, giggling and whispering. Harry looked at Ron and they silently agreed that they probably didn’t want to know what the girls were giggling about.

Quietly, Harry spooned food onto his plate and ate carefully. He tried to join conversations, he really did, but every time the conversation paused, Harry’s mind wandered to his mum’s journals.

It was all too much to take in, considering that he had been told for his whole life that his parents died together, when in fact his mother died in August—two months before his father. But what did that _mean_?!

Harry distinctly remembered two sets of voices when Dementors came round. His dad’s saying he would hold off Voldemort and his mum’s, asking Voldemort not to kill him before she screamed as she died. So how did it all fit?! Was this just some hoax? Did the Dursleys write those diaries to trick him or something?

Immediately as he thought that, his mind wiped it away. Yes, his relatives would do something mean-spirited like that but they wouldn’t put in the effort to write all that just to mess with him. It could be a trick from Voldemort but there was no way that Dark Wizards could have gotten through the wards to leave that trunk at the Dursleys. And Harry didn’t believe that anyone in the Order would be that cruel to do it either.

That left the only other option: it was all true and something was wrong with his memories. Harry chewed on his lip, pushing peas around absently on his plate. He still hadn’t finished all the letters, so there was a chance that his father explained it all…

The teenager took a deep breath, his lungs expanding and his chest filling with air. He blew it out, relaxing his limbs. He’d just have to wait and see. If he didn’t find answers, he’d just have to figure it out elsewhere. Perhaps Dumbledore would let him borrow his Pensieve? There was a miniscule chance that his memory of that night could be enhanced to see what really happened.

As his mind started to spin off, thinking wildly about being able to see what really happened that Halloween, Sirius’s voice startled him.

“Harry? You alright?” his godfather asked quietly. When Harry met Sirius’s eyes, the dog animagus smiled reassuringly.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Harry replied automatically. Staring down at his food, a thought hit him. Before he could change his mind, he blurted out, “Actually, can I show you something? It’s important.”

“’Course,” Sirius agreed. He seemed unconcerned but the lines on his forehead showed his worry.

Neither of them had eaten very much nor were they hungry at the moment. Sirius politely excused them from the table, nodding to Mrs. Weasley as they left.

Harry felt the gazes of several people, including Ron and Hermione of course, on his back but he ignored them as he walked up the stairs with Sirius. He felt like his heart was going to beat its way out of his chest every time he took a step as it thudded noisily in his ears. Harry knew his godfather would get upset over the trunk and he dearly hoped Sirius wouldn’t do anything rash or stupid.

But at the same time, all these secrets were eating him up from the inside and he knew that it wouldn’t hurt to share this little one with his godfather. He was, after all, his dad’s best friend.

The creak of Harry’s room door echoed ominously in the silence. Harry crouched, fumbling with the latch on his trunk. His fingers were rubbery and weak, shaking as he pulled out the smaller box.

Turning to Sirius, he set it down on his bed and stuttered out an explanation. “I.. er, I was cleaning the Dursleys’ attic earlier this summer, when I found this,” Harry said. He pulled his wand from his pocket and fit it into the now-perfectly-fitting crevice. “It was an accident, but I figured out how to open it. Sirius… it belonged to my parents.”

Sirius’s eyes were sad and tearful as he sat on the bed next to his godson. Harry carefully pulled out the diaries, letters, rings and wand to show him. His godfather reverently picked up each of the items, musing over them carefully and through a tight throat.

“Your mum used to keep a diary,” he started, holding one in his hands. “I remember watching her in the common room some evenings. She’d curl up by the fire, on that large red armchair with the golden trimmings. You know the one?” he laughed ruefully. “James once tried nicking her diary in third year. I think he ended up with green hair, boils all over and whiskers for that one.”

Harry smiled sadly, a warm feeling growing in his chest. Sirius continued, “We always wondered what she wrote about, your mum. She was popular, you know? Had lots of friends but was brilliant too. She made everyone smile and had a way of making you feel like you were _important_. But she had a temper too! I can’t remember how many times she hexed one of us for our pranks. I think your father did it on purpose, just to get her to look at him.”

Idly, Sirius picked up the wand. “This was your mum’s too,” he said, caressing the slender wood. “She was always the best at Charms. Potions too. Lily was always writing comments in her books, a right graffiti artist she was. Pince twitched every time Lily brought a quill into the library.”

Harry soaked up the information like a sponge. This was more than he’d ever learnt at one time about his mother. He had so many questions on the tip of his tongue but he was afraid that if he spoke, Sirius would stop talking.

His eyes swiveled to the rings, now resting delicately in Sirius’s palm. “I gave these to them at the wedding,” his godfather said quietly. He swallowed roughly. “James kept reminding me to bring them; he thought I’d forget! He was so nervous that day… I had to keep charming his shirt dry because he was sweating so much. Your mum, though, she was calm. She looked so happy and beautiful.”

Sirius’s voice trailed off. He cleared his throat, holding the rings out to Harry. “You should keep these,” he suggested, “You may want to use them in the future.” Sirius waggled his eyebrows, eliciting a teary laugh from Harry.

The teenager took them and looked at them carefully. He was reluctant to put them back in the trunk, to hide them away. “Sirius… do you have a chain that I could use?” He looked up at his godfather, hoping that he would understand what Harry wanted.

The older man’s eyes softened and he nodded. “Come with me,” he said, leading the way.

The house was quiet, the others were still down in the kitchen—probably to give them privacy—as they made their way up to Sirius’s mum’s room. Walburga Black’s bedroom was a mess of torn blankets, dirt, and dead mice; it stunk dreadfully. Buckbeak, the hippogriff Harry and Hermione had saved in his third year, was chained to the once-magnificent bed.

Without blinking, Harry and Sirius bowed to the proud creature, waiting anxiously for him to give his approval. When the hippogriff sank to his scaly knees, they both stepped forward. Harry patted Buckbeak in greeting while Sirius rustled noisily in the side armoire. Grunting, cursing and crashing could be heard until the older man emerged victorious.

“Here,” Sirius said, holding out a simple and thick silver chain. “Most of this is rubbish but I’m sure this is fine to use.”

“Thanks,” Harry said with a smile. He quietly threaded both rings on the chain, slipping it over his head. They clinked reassuringly against his chest and he grasped them tightly. He looked up at Sirius, expressing his appreciation with his eyes.

Sirius cleared his throat, grabbing his godson in a one-armed hug. “C’mon. We should probably go see the others,” he suggested. “They might think we got eaten by the cupboard or something.”

Harry snorted, knowing that that assumption wasn’t far off from reality in the Black ancestral home, but followed his godfather down the steps. They were both quiet but Harry offered hesitantly, “I’m not done reading yet but Dad wanted you to see the diaries and letters after I finished. He said he had something important to tell us. I could leave them for you when I go to Hogwarts… if you want?”

Sirius swallowed, trying not to let the tears spill over on his face. He wasn’t sure if he could bear to read some of the last words his all-but-blood brother left for him. But he knew that he would hate himself forever if he didn’t read them. “Yeah pup, that’d be good. Thanks.”

Harry felt warmth rise through him as Sirius squeezed his shoulder and ruffled his hair. Maybe, he thought, this is what it is like to have a father.


	7. Trials, Tribulations and Travel

He was in a long, dark corridor. He could barely see as fire guttered in the sconces and shadows crept over the doors and walls. He was walking forward and all he could hear were the clacking echo of his footsteps. He just kept walking until he reached a door, the only door in front of him. He tried the knob but it wouldn’t budge.

He pushed at the door, slammed his shoulder against it, even cast spells. It wouldn’t move. The shadows in the hallway crept closer to his turned back and his heart leapt into his throat…

Harry woke with a gasp, sitting up straight immediately, a cold sweat on his face and his pyjamas sticking to his skin. The damp clothes and bed sheets, quickly losing heat, caused a shiver to wriggle down his spine. Feeling like he would be choked by his shirt if he stayed still any longer, Harry darted to the bathroom for a shower.

Ron was still snoring, quite loudly from the sound of it, in the opposite bed when Harry struggled into his clothes. It’s only when you are trying to put them on quietly when they start catching on your toes and tripping you in the most awkward of positions. The job was even harder because his head was so thick with exhaustion that he had almost no coordination. Finally dressed, robes and all, Harry glanced down at Ron.

His stomach convulsed in pre-trial queasiness as an absent thought ran through his head. What if he came back and he wasn’t a student at Hogwarts anymore? His head, being completely uncooperative, followed up with an equally horrendous idea. If he left Hogwarts, would that mean that he would have to return to the Dursleys?

Shuddering at the thought, Harry firmly deciding that no matter what, he was _not_ going back to Privet Drive. He’d rather live with Sirius in the dank and decrepit Grimmauld Place, never to see the sun again. The teenager chortled and gave himself a little shake. He really had to stop being so melodramatic.

Harry left the room and trod down the stairs, his stomach twisting in knots. He had no idea how wizarding courts worked. Should he have a lawyer? It was supposed to be a disciplinary hearing but the whole thing just sounded ominous.

Outside the kitchen, Harry steeled himself for the rest of the morning. He was battling cancer and a Dark Lord at the same time. After all that, a hearing over his possible expulsion at Hogwarts should be nothing. Harry opened the door but a cynical voice at the back of his mind whispered that it was never that easy.

 

* * *

 

 

That evening, Grimmauld Place was alight with laughter and celebration. Harry sipped cheerily at a butterbeer, the warm foam sticking to his upper lip when he put the bottle down. Licking it off, he exchanged grins with Ginny as Ron and Hermione happily bickered about the way to properly wear socks: both of the same colour or mixed pairs.

The Weasleys were spread throughout the room, tucking into Mrs. Weasley’s sumptuous feast with gusto. Sirius was nursing a firewhiskey in a corner while Remus chatted amiably with Mr. Weasley. A few other Order members, like Kingsley and Dung, were lounging on chairs in between their shifts. Tonks would have been there but bowed out in order to get some sleep, being about one minute from falling on her face.

Harry toyed with the empty bottle in his hands, slipping into his thoughts. He was more than thrilled that he still had his wand and could go back to Hogwarts for the next year. It certainly allowed him to focus on things other than escape-the-Dursleys plans. But there were a few other thoughts that dwelled in his head.

First of all, the cancer. He had a plan to get to the hospital once he was back at Hogwarts but it wasn’t exactly full-proof. Harry knew that he could work something out for regular appointments such as private study time or just pretend to be somewhere else in the castle, as long as he hid the Marauder’s Map from his friends. He only hoped that he would be able to hide the effects of his treatment from the suspicious eyes of his friends.

Harry had been lucky so far but it was only a matter of time before someone found out. Up to this point, his weight loss had been written off as a poor diet at the Dursleys and the extra inches he’d grown. He hid the bruises with long sleeves and changed in the washroom but Harry noticed the odd looks Ron threw at him every time he dressed.

Harry sighed and briefly touched the tender spot in the middle of his spine. It would only take Ron one glance to see the massive bruise that coloured his back. Harry knew that his well-intentioned friends would ask questions; questions that he didn’t want to answer. That was the same reason why he had refused to get a port like Dr. Taylor had suggested.

The port was this device that a surgeon would place on his chest with tubes hanging off it. It was meant to allow nurses access to a line that would constantly be connected to his arteries so they could easily hook him for chemotherapy. Touching his left arm gingerly, Harry grimaced. It would have let him avoid the weekly needles that were shoved into his arm but it was also something that he couldn’t hide. A bruise could easily be covered by a shirt sleeve but a great Muggle port on his chest would stick out any time he wore anything that was remotely form-fitting.

The risk was too great. Harry winced as he pressed a little too hard on a particular sensitive spot. He moved his right hand away from his arm and instinctively went to run a hand through his hair but stopped himself at the last second. Instead, he carefully flattened his bangs over his scar, resisting the urge to tug at the black locks. Recently, he’d been finding hair on his pillow when he woke up in the mornings. Harry had thankfully been the only one to see it but the sight still scared him shitless.

Losing his hair had been a fear of his from the beginning of all the cancer madness and it was starting to come true. His one saving grace was magic. Whenever he lost some hair, it would grow back immediately, just like when he was young and Aunt Petunia had nearly shaved his whole head. If it weren’t for that, Harry would have been forced to tell the truth by now.

He took a great breath and forced himself up to get another butterbeer. Sipping at the warm drink, he felt heat suffuse his chest and immediately felt a little better. The reality of cancer was just beginning to hit him after weeks of shock and confusion. Harry wasn’t nearly ready to deal with telling his friends and Sirius because he was only just figuring out what his life was now like.

For a few hours at a time he could forget that he was sick but would eventually be jerked back into reality. The strangeness of a Muggle hospital ward and the side effects of the treatments were just starting to become something he could get used to. But he still hadn’t started to seriously think about what it would mean if he was really dying. Harry was scared and he wasn’t ready to think about that.

All he wanted to focus on were the treatments that he was getting. Taylor was ‘cautiously optimistic’ and so far things looked good. Harry didn’t want to panic about death if he would end up being alright in a few months. The doctor had explained that if the next few weeks went well and he transitioned to the next step of treatment, he could be fine in two years if he stayed cancer free. That hope was too tempting to shrug away and he wasn't ready to think about dying when not dying was on the table.

Harry took another gulp of his drink and forced away those thoughts. He felt so helpless when he thought about cancer and even though he needed to think about it, he hated it every time. Besides, the other major events in his life were things he could actually _do_ something about.

The teenager eyed his godfather. Sirius was brooding in the corner, nursing his third firewhiskey of the night. The man was obviously unhappy even though he tried to pull a smile on his face whenever someone tried to talk to him or when he met Harry’s eyes. Harry’s heart clenched but he wasn’t sure if there was anything he could do. Every time he approached, Sirius would pretend like nothing was wrong, not letting Harry talk to him about what was obviously bothering him.

Hermione suggested that Sirius had been hoping that Harry would stay with him in the house, but Harry wasn’t sure that that was the real reason. His godfather didn’t seem that unstable to want to condemn Harry to the same depressing house that Sirius was confined to.

He just wished there was someone he could talk to about it all. As the secrets and lies kept growing and pressing against him, Harry’s resistance to talking to Dumbledore had begun to wear down. But even when he had opportunities to talk to his Headmaster, Dumbledore wouldn’t even stay still long enough for him to get a word in! The man wouldn’t look into his eyes and barely spoke to him directly.

Hurt blossomed in his chest. Harry had no idea what he’d done wrong but it had to be significant when the man he trusted above all others refused to look him in the eyes. He’d been hoping that Dumbledore would have shown up for the party but as the hours wore on, Harry realised that the Headmaster wasn’t coming. He knew that Dumbledore was probably busy with everything going on but he had hoped that he could talk to him for just a few minutes.

Whatever the reason was, Harry felt like a chasm was growing between him and Dumbledore with every rebuff he got. The older man’s distance just made it that more difficult to broach such a trying topic as his health. Discouraged from contacting his Headmaster, Harry drained the last of his butterbeer and hoisted himself up from the armchair.

Harry said his exhausted goodbyes to the party-goers and stumbled upstairs to bed. He just hoped everything would be clearer after a good night’s sleep.

 

* * *

 

The black haired teenager braced himself as he prepared to do something that went against his very nature. He was going to throw a tantrum.

Dudley had given him enough experience in tantrums, especially how to fake them well enough to get what he wanted. As a child, Harry had promised himself he'd never act like his cousin but desperation was leading him to breaking that promise.

Stepping into the hall, Harry made his way downstairs, putting a small scowl on his face. His stomach churned uncomfortably as he entered the sitting room and found his friends and Sirius lounging on the chairs. He almost turned tail and gave up the whole plan, but the thought of getting caught leaving the house stopped him. He _had_ to do this.

"Hey Harry!" Ron said with a broad grin as his best friend entered the room.

Harry nodded slightly, still leaving the scowl on his face.

"What's wrong?" Hermione asked concernedly.

"Nothing," Harry groused, feeling guilt churn in his stomach when knew what was about to happen. _Sorry, Hermione_.

"If it's your scar again, you should tell..." Hermione pushed.

"Just leave it alone, Hermione! Mind your own business!" Harry snapped, crossing his arms.

"Hey!" Ron scolded, confronting Harry when Hermione looked away and blinked back tears. "There's no need to be mean! She's–We're just worried about you!"

"Oh, talking about me behind my back now, are you?" Harry argued, standing up aggressively.

"No, Harry! We just—" Hermione, argued, joining Ron who'd also sprung to his feet.

"So what if we are?" Ron countered heatedly over Hermione's voice. Harry almost smiled. His hot-headed best friend was so very predictable.

"Well fine then!" Harry shouted, clenching his fists. "Go on and talk about me, I don't care! And while we're at it, just bugger off and leave me alone!"

"Fine!" Ron shouted back.

And with that, Harry stormed out of the room and ran upstairs to the shrieks of Mrs. Black's portrait. He slammed his and Ron's room door, taking a deep breath to bring his blood back down to normal. A lone tear slipped down his cheek in regret as he slipped his Invisibility Cloak on. Money of both currencies and his wand in his pocket, Harry snuck out of the room, down the stairs and out the front door, just before Sirius came around the corner to shut Mrs. Black's curtains.

It was almost too easy. With his friends still reeling from the explosion that was his tantrum and the screaming portrait covering any noise, Harry was able to get out of the house without anyone the wiser. He should now have a few hours of free time.

Harry walked to the end of the street and around the corner. Memorising the address of the house in front of him, he called the Knight Bus, stowing his Invisibility Cloak in his pocket and putting on his trusty cap.

"Welcome to the Knight Bus..." Stan started off on his usual rambling speech.

Harry interrupted him, stuffing eleven sickles into the conductor's hand. "Staines, Surrey," he said, deepening his voice a little.

Stan passed that on to Ernie and didn't comment further as Harry went upstairs and sat down. It was something he'd learned just recently: to avoid the curious conductor, sit up on the top floor of the bus. It was mostly empty, Madam Marsh being the only other passenger. The Knight Bus stopped off at Diagon Alley first and she got off, smelling faintly of sick. Harry wrinkled his nose and was glad that she hadn't been sick while he was on board.

The next stop was his and Harry got off with some relief. If he could, he would have taken the Muggle bus from London to Surrey, but with only two, maybe three, hours of sulking time he couldn't waste time on non-magical transportation. Still, he was early as he'd budgeted more time for the Knight Bus than he'd ended up needing.

Deciding to visit his friends, as he hadn't for some time, he skipped the laboratory and went straight up to the now-familiar ward.

"Harry!" Patrick called as he walked through the open door of their room. "Where've you been?" Mike, Lucy, Gertie and Clarisse called out all manner of greetings to him as well.

"Hi," Harry said, coming to sit on the edge of Mike's bed. "Sorry, it's been mad. I've staying at my godfather's, in London. He sort of surprised me last weekend."

"That's great!" Clarisse said, squeezing his arm warmly. Harry's stomach fluttered and he smiled goofily at her. "Are you having fun?"

"Yeah," Harry returned. "It's been good, although Sirius really needs to get a new interior decorator!" he joked.

The teens laughed. "Bad?" Patrick asked through chuckles.

"Worse," Harry corrected. "He's got this horrible portrait of his mum on the wall near the front door and it looks like she's screaming at you every time you come in." They all laughed. "But enough about me what's been going on here?"

"Not much," Gertie said with a shrug. "James started his term on Monday, so he's off doing homework. Richards was caught snogging with Mrs. Partridge (the head nurse) in the third floor supply room, and Patrick and I are dating!"

Harry laughed and smiled at his two friends. "That's great!" he said. "And I can't believe Richards actually _snogged_ Mrs. Partridge! Did someone spike his coffee again?"

Laughter rang through the ward again and the teens were off, gossiping as usual. Harry felt warmth seep through him, especially when Clarisse clutched his hand partway through. He squeezed her soft palm comfortingly and smiled.

 

* * *

 

 

After a little while, Harry had to leave for his treatment. Gertie had, unfortunately, already had hers in the morning and stayed after to spend time with her friends while her dad did some things in town. So the black-haired teen trudged down to the laboratory, feeling particularly lonely after all the chaos, as he sat on his own. The nurse hooked him up and left him with the sick bucket.

His left arm ached uncomfortably, as yet another needle had been stuck into it. While he had rejected the Hickman for important reasons, it was still painful to get stuck in the arm every week, especially with his skin as sensitive as it was.

"Hey," a soft voice spoke as a warm hand covered his free one. Harry looked up to see Clarisse sitting down next to him, an IV stand held in her small fist.

"Hey," he said hoarsely as she sat down next to him. "What're you doing here?"

"What do you think?" she asked with a grin. She sobered slightly. "No one deserves to sit alone during treatments," was her only explanation.

Harry squeezed her hand gratefully, words failing. He hadn't realized how much he desperately wanted someone next to him until she had sat down.

"Why didn't your godfather come?" she asked. "I know why your relatives didn't but why not him?"

Harry swallowed roughly and looked at his scruffy trainers. "I couldn't get myself to tell him," he admitted in a whisper.

Her fingers squeezed his tightly at his confession, but Harry refused to look at her—he felt almost as if he would lose his grip on a proverbial cliff if he did. She put her fingers under Harry's chin and turned it to face her. "Why not, Harry?" she asked seriously and without judgement.

Harry looked into her searching and open eyes, the truth spilling unbidden from his lips. "Because, how do I tell him that I'm dying and there's nothing he can do about it?" he said helplessly, his eyes watering and throat choking, "I'm scared, Clarisse, and he's not really that stable as it is. And I can't be brave for the both of us. I just can't!"

Clarisse pulled him into a warm hug and traitorous tears fell as he sobbed lightly into her thick and warm dressing gown. Her hand was rubbing soothingly on his back and Harry couldn't stop the pain and frustration he'd held back for weeks.

A knot in his chest loosened with every sob and the comforting circles that were being rubbed into his back. He remembered Mrs. Weasley's hug after the Third Task and likened this to that. Harry squeezed Clarisse briefly and let a few more tears leak out. Being hugged like this made him feel hope, that everything was going to be okay, and he knew that that was something he desperately needed.

The sobs gradually subsided and Harry sat back, hiccuping and cheeks red with embarrassment. He paused for a moment, drying his face with a sleeve. Looking up at Clarisse, he blushed and averted his eyes. "Sorry for getting your dressing gown wet," he said lamely.

The girl shrugged it off and grabbed his hand again. "Don't worry about it. And Harry...?" she trailed off and hesitated for a moment. "I can't say I understand what exactly you're going through, because I've had my parents by my side this whole time. They helped the doctor tell _me_ I was sick. But I do know that this fight is hard, and I'd like to think it's easier with someone there next to you. Even if that person can't do anything, it's nice to know you're not alone," she blushed a little, adding, "and I'm here, you know, if you ever want to talk."

Harry squeezed her hand and looked into her earnest face. "Thanks," he said. "I'll think about it," he promised. A part of him knew that she was probably right, as she did know more about this cancer thing than he did; but he also knew that his instincts were rarely wrong. Before he said anything to anyone, there was something else he'd have to figure out.

Deciding to put it aside until he was alone, not wanting to brood while a pretty girl held his hand, Harry started chatting with Clarisse. They talked about all sorts of things, avoiding more serious subjects, until Harry'd completely lost track of time. It wasn't until the nurse came to remove the needle and send him on his way, that they stopped.

"Well, you've gotten yourself some company, haven't you Harry?" the nurse said genially as she wrapped a bandage around his arm. "Good for you!"

"Thanks Maude," Harry said with a blush as he got up from his chair. "I'll see you next week, yeah?"

Saying goodbye, he escorted Clarisse back upstairs, not wanting to leave just yet. Outside her room, he greeted Lucy and then turned to Clarisse.

"Thanks," he said, a nervous flutter starting in his stomach, "for, you know, sitting with me."

"Any time," she said with a small smile, a pretty blush staining her cheeks. "Come by some time, yeah? Don't be a stranger."

"I won't," Harry promised. "Sirius doesn't have a phone but we could write, if you want. Just send them with Hedwig, she knows where to go."

"If she doesn't bite me first," Clarisse joked and smiled.

"I'll talk to her," he said. "And I'm with Sirius until term starts but I'll be back next week for my treatment. I'll come see you."

"I can't wait," she said softly.

Harry hadn't realised how close together they were but now his eyes stared into hers before fluttering down to her lips. And before he knew it, he'd leaned in and placed a chaste but sweet kiss on her lips. After a few seconds, he drew back nervously, unsure how she'd take it. First he cries on her shoulder and then he kisses her, yeah Harry great way to make an impression!

But Clarisse smiled brilliantly and her cheeks were flushed. Harry grinned back and ran a hand through his hair and promised himself he'd kiss her again soon, just for that smile.

When she didn't say anything, Harry stuck his hands in his pockets and shuffled back. "Well, er, I should get going. I'll see you?"

"Yeah," Clarisse said with that dazed smile still on her face.

Harry grinned, waved and went to the elevator, his heart thrumming in his veins and his stomach fluttering. He'd never expected to fall for a Muggle girl but here he was, snogging one. Leaning back into the elevator, daydreamed a bit. In a simpler world, he'd take her to a film and dinner and they'd go for a walk in the moonlight, talking and kissing until he took her home. Harry smiled at the thought. In a simpler world, he'd be a Muggle, Voldemort wouldn't exist and they'd both be free of cancer.

But, Harry thought as he exited the elevator, life wasn't that simple. They both were sick, quite possibly dying, he had a psychopath after him and he hadn't even considered telling Clarisse about magic. His head sank, shoulders drooping, thinking about Clarisse. The way she'd sat with him, hugged him and then just sat there talking with him. She hadn't pushed him on something he didn't want to talk about and she knew just what to say to help him feel better. Warmth flooded through his chest.

The teenager then stuck his hands in his pockets and lifted his head, resolving that he'd spend more time with Clarisse. He didn't have to tell her about magic right away but maybe he could convince Dumbledore to let him tell her during the Christmas holidays. Harry knew that he was perhaps jumping into this too quickly but he also knew that his time was limited, and he didn't want to waste a moment of it if he could help it.

 

* * *

 

Getting back into Grimmauld Place wasn't as difficult as he'd thought, Harry noted as he made his way up the stairs. Instead of entering his room with Ron, he went up to the nearly uninhabited fourth floor to remove his cloak. He then went down again, this time making a little noise as his feet hit the creaking parts of the wood.

He found his friends in the kitchen this time, sitting with cups of tea as Mrs. Weasley puttered around with small sandwiches. Harry's hands were in his pockets and his face was schooled as contritely as possible. His own guilt at starting the fight showed in his expression.

"Harry!" his friend's mother called out. "Come and sit down dear. We called you for lunch but Ron said you probably weren't hungry." She ushered him to a seat across from his friends and set a full plate in front of him. "You should eat something."

Harry ignored the food for a moment, not feeling very hungry anyway as his stomach churned guiltily. Ron wasn't looking at him and Hermione was biting her lip nervously.

"Ron, Hermione..." he said, looking down. ”I'm sorry. I shouldn't have shouted or said those horrible things. You were just trying to help and it wasn't right of me to take it out on you."

Hermione looked up and cried, "Oh, Harry!" and Harry knew that she'd forgiven him, as she always did. She really was too good to him.

Ron shrugged and took a healthy bite out of his sandwich. "Just as long as you know that, mate," he said through his food, which got him a glare from his mother. He exchanged a grin with Harry and he knew that was that.

His hunger returned to him, now that things were good with his friends, so Harry ate three sandwiches and two glasses of pumpkin juice. He wanted to eat as much as he could before the usual side effects started up again and he lost his appetite once more, as was bound to happen within a few hours.

 

* * *

 

 

He was back in that dark corridor. It was dimly lit but he could see that door at the end. It was so irritating, standing right there, tempting him, but despite everything he did, it refused to open... But before he could get a grip on the dream, it melted.

Harry was standing outside a room, in a familiar old house, and that cold, terrifying voice echoing through it.

"Wormtail!" it shouted, sending a rat-like man scurrying to it.

"Y-yes Master?" he cowered, snivelling into the rug.

"Get me a robe," he ordered, his wand held threateningly in his long fingered hand. "Now!"

"Yes Master," the rat said hurriedly before running off.

Voldemort sat back in his armchair idly twirling his wand. Nagini was curled up before the fireplace, her scales glittering in the dim light. Harry gulped and felt sick as he saw the shiny stains of blood on Voldemort's black robe, now visible, and the remains of a body in the corner. The teenager gulped to keep down the urge to heave and just barely noticed the hint of a bruise on Voldemort's arm before he was jolted out of the dream.

Gasping, Harry woke, sweating and shivering fiercely. He struggled weakly out of his blankets and lurched to the toilet, just in time to be violently sick. He vaguely heard Ron wake up and call out sleepily, but Harry was too preoccupied to care.

"What?" Ron murmured as he heard sounds coming from the bathroom. He got out of bed and blanched at the sight of his best friend. "Harry!"

Running out of the room, he went upstairs to his parents' bedroom and knocked loudly on the door.

"Ron, what's wrong?" his dad asked worriedly, glasses askew as he opened the door to his youngest son.

"Mum, come quick. Harry's ill!" he explained, seeing his mum over his dad's shoulder.

He led them back to his room and pointed to the loo, where Harry was _still_ being sick. Ron waited outside with his dad while his mum sat with Harry. The red-head was still worried but his mum was the best whenever he was feeling ill and Harry would be okay with her around.

"Ron, do you want to come back and sleep in our bedroom?" Arthur offered. "It sounds like your mum might need to stay in here with Harry."

Ron hesitated, wanting to stay with his best friend and also a little reluctant to sleep next to his father at his age. But he also recognised that Harry would probably be sick the whole night and it would be easier for his mum to sleep in her son's bed rather than in a chair. "Yeah, alright," he agreed.

He turned around and walked with his dad, hoping that Harry would feel better in the morning.

 

* * *

 

Harry groaned as he slowly regained consciousness. His head was pounding and his mouth felt dry, but his stomach contents weren't about to leap out of his mouth just yet. He felt half dead and decided to just lay here, as experience said he was less likely to be sick if he just stayed where he was with his eyes closed.

He remembered waking up and being sick in the loo, more sick than he'd ever been. Harry had thought he'd heard Ron, and he must have, for a few minutes later, Mrs. Weasley was sitting next to him. He'd never had a mother-figure fuss over him like this and despite feeling like utter rubbish, it felt good to have someone next to him. It wasn't as weird or as awkward as he'd thought.

She'd put a cool cloth on the back of his neck and braced him when he heaved, mopping his face and helping him rinse out his mouth with water when he rested. She'd helped him back to bed when he felt well enough to leave the loo and had even cast a freshening charm on his mouth that was as good as brushing his teeth. Mrs. Weasley had also given him a potion that had soothed his stomach long enough for him to fall asleep with her lightly rubbing his back.

It was more care than he'd received in a while, Harry noted, if he didn't count Clarisse's support the day before at the laboratory. Warmth sat in his chest at the thought.

He heard the door open a little and realised that the room had been empty before. Curious, he risked opening his eyes. It didn't bring the threatening nausea and he looked blearily up at a blurry Mrs. Weasley.

"Hello Harry," she said softly, setting a tray next to his bed. "How are you feeling?"

"Better," he croaked with a weak grin, weakly trying to sit up.

Mrs. Weasley stopped him with a hand on his shoulder and he did so. He really didn't feel strong enough to sit up for long anyway. That warm hand then went to his forehead, cheek and under his jaw before drawing back.

"Your fever's gone down but not all the way, so I don't want you out of bed until it's gone, understood?" she said sternly. Harry nodded, not trying to argue with her, although he'd done a full day's worth of chores with more than a mild fever before. "And I want you to take these potions," she said, handing them to him one by one. Harry swallowed them, recognising the taste of the one from last night and the familiar Pepper-Up Potion. "Now, how's your stomach?"

"It's feeling better since last night but I'm not very hungry," Harry said quietly, feeling a little bit tired again. It was wonderful to not be constantly nauseous and he'd have to get the name of that potion she had given him.

"I'd still like you to drink something for now and I'll bring you some soup later today," she said with a concerned look. Harry agreed and Mrs. Weasley took a mug off the tray. She helped him sit up slightly on pillows and he drank the warm tea with honey. It felt great on his throat and he felt his limbs relax. Once he finished, she took the mug from him and helped him lay back. She fussed with his blankets and kissed him on his forehead as his eyes slid shut.

Warmth suffused him from the inside and he fell asleep with a smile on his face.

 

* * *

 

The next time he woke up, Harry felt much better and also gained some company as Ron and Hermione came in with Mrs. Weasley. After she'd fussed around with her forehead checks and potion regime, she'd left the three teenagers with strict rules for him to stay in bed and let him go back to sleep if he got tired.

Ron rolled his eyes playfully as his mum left but grinned at his best mate who was looking loads better. "I'm glad you're feeling better, mate," he said, " 'cause I've seen mermaids looking less green."

Harry laughed, knowing that Ron's teasing was belayed by his speed in getting his mother the night before. "Thanks Ron," he said as Hermione scowled at their friend.

"Still, you're awful lucky you got out of cleaning this morning. Mum's gone mad. I think she expects us to disinfect the entire house before term starts!" Ron exclaimed.

"Oh honestly Ronald," Hermione argued. "It wasn't that bad. You're just exaggerat—" she was cut off by Hedwig tapping at the window. "Oh!"

Hermione let the snowy owl in, who flew to Harry with a white envelope in her beak. The teenager took it from her as his friend shut the window.

"Who's it from Harry?" Ron asked curiously.

He opened it and unfolded the letter, realising that the paper was lined and most definitely Muggle. Harry smiled and glanced through it quickly, before looking at his friends.

"I didn't know you had any Muggle friends," Hermione commented, looking at the paper. Harry blushed furiously and stammered incoherently, not wanting to say girlfriend but not wanting to deny it either. At Harry's brilliantly red and telling blush, she squealed and leaned. "Who is she?"

"She?" Ron parroted with raised eyebrows. When Harry didn't deny it, his smile stretched to his ears and he crowed. "So, tell us! Who is she? Go on mate!"

"Well, I met her this summer at my job. Her name is Clarisse and she's quite pretty," he explained, grinning. "We talked a bit and I met some of her other friends too. And the last time we met, I — well, I kissed her."

"Good on you!" Ron whooped and Hermione smiled at him. "So? What was it like?"

"Nice," Harry said eagerly. "Warm and sweet. It was only for a few seconds, but she was smiling, so I think it was a good sign!"

"Oh, that's wonderful, Harry!" Hermione said. "But how did she send you a letter with Hedwig? You didn't tell her about magic, did you?" she gave him a stern and scolding look.

"No," Harry said, shaking his head. "Hedwig found me when we were talking and I told them, her and other Muggles, that I'd found her hurt and Hagrid helped me heal her wing and that she delivers my post."

"Well, that's alright then," Ron commented, shrugging it off. He was absently unwrapping a Chocolate Frog as he spoke.

Harry put his letter aside with a smile. "Yeah, I think they just think I'm a bit odd anyway," he said absently. At Hermione's questioning look, he added sheepishly, "I may have slipped up and told them about Quidditch."

"Harry!" his friends exclaimed, eyes wide.

"I didn't tell them it was on brooms!" Harry hastily said, warding off the complaints. "I just mentioned the positions and what the players do. And you know, the game really does sound like rubbish without magic."

Ron scoffed. "Well of course it does!" he exclaimed. "It's a _magical_ sport."

Hermione rolled her eyes at the two of them. "Well anyway," she interrupted before Ron could go off on the merits of Quidditch, "I'm glad you made some Muggle friends. I feel better knowing that you had other people to talk to this summer."

Harry smiled at his bushy-haired friend and shrugged. "I'm just glad to be away from the Dursleys, honestly," he said. "And we write, so it's alright. I want to ask Dumbledore if I can visit her for Christmas. Do you think I could?"

"Dunno," Ron said hesitantly, "maybe. Wouldn't hurt to ask!" Hermione nodded in agreement, although it was just as hesitant.

The black-haired teenager appreciated his friends' support even though he was just as hesitant. With Voldemort and the Death Eaters out there, Dumbledore would be less likely to let him visit a Muggle for the holidays. But he'd try asking anyway.

"Have you lot heard anything about the Order yet?" Harry asked, wanting to change the subject.

Ron scowled. "Not yet. I heard mum tell dad this morning that there would be a meeting tomorrow night! They thought I was asleep," he said.

"We've already told Fred, George and Ginny, but I doubt Mrs. Weasley will forget the Imperturbable Charm again," Hermione said. She sighed. "You were right, you know, Harry. Whether we want to or not, you always end up in the middle of Voldemort's plans and Ron and I usually go with you!"

Ron nodded. "It's rubbish, it is," he agreed. "But what can we do about it if they won't let us hear what's going on?"

Harry bit his lip, thinking furiously. "If only we could get past the Imperturbable Charm..." he mused. He moved on the bed and heard the wood groan. "That's it!" he said, shooting up straight in bed. Ron and Hermione leaned in eagerly, feeling like a plan was finally coming together. "What if we didn't try the Ears through the _door_?" he suggested.

Ron furrowed his brow. "But, mate, it's the only way into the kitchen. And mum checks the pantry before meetings," he groused, "Fred and George got their ears yelled off for trying to hide in there."

"No," Harry said quickly. "The kitchen is huge, right? It takes up almost the whole basement. And what's right above it?" He smiled triumphantly as Hermione's face brightened with understanding.

"Oh!" she exclaimed. "Don't you see Ronald?" At his annoyed look, she elaborated. "If we could just find a crack somewhere, we could put the Extendable Ear right through and hear into the kitchen!"

"And with Fred and George, it wouldn't take long at all!" Ron added, growing excited. "Just a mo', I'm going to get them."

"Don't let your mum hear you!" Harry warned just before his friend left the room. In no time, Ron was back with Ginny and the twins.

"Let's make this quick," one of the twins said as they perched on Ron's bed. "We can't make mum suspicious."

"Right," Harry said. "Fred, George, we need you to make a tiny hole in the floor that goes down to the kitchen ceiling. And make sure you can't see the hole in the kitchen. I can keep your mum up here for a few minutes, but you've got to make it quick. Then tomorrow night, we'll pretend to  study of something in the dining room when everyone goes for the meeting. When it starts, we can listen at the hole. But we've got to be careful because any noise can set off the portraits and Moody's eye could see us through the ceiling too."

The twins nodded. "Good idea Harry," George said. "Ginny, you will stand in the kitchen to make sure we don't drill too far. Hermione, you and Ron will make sure we get the hole in the right place. Fred and I will go look for a good place to put it while mum's in the kitchen."

"Make sure that you put it somewhere in the middle of the room," Ginny piped up. "Then we can all sit around it, like we're studying together. Moody won't find anything suspicious about that."

"Good idea Gin-Gin!" Fred said. "Right, we're going to go. Feel better Harry!"

Harry waved goodbye to the twins, excited for the plan. If they didn't get caught, this would be a great way to eavesdrop. Almost involuntarily, he yawned. All the sleep he'd gotten was wearing off as he started to feel drowsy again. The excitement earlier must have kept him from feeling it.

"We should let you sleep, Harry," Hermione said regretfully. "You're still not well."

Harry protested but his friends stood up anyway. "Mum will kill us if we don't," Ron said with a wry smile. "She's probably going to come up soon with your lunch anyway."

"Alright mate. Just warn the twins, will you?" Harry said sleepily, laying back on his pillows.

"Yeah," Ron said. "Have a good kip!"

Harry smiled faintly as his friends left, wishing him well. His eyelids drooped as exhaustion crept over him. He was very ready for the chemo to be over, just to not have this tiredness for days after treatments. Being constantly tired was exhausting.

"Harry?" Mrs. Weasley called out quietly.

His eyes snapped open and he sat up a little. "Mrs. Weasley!"

His friend's mother came in bearing a tray with soup and a glass of pumpkin juice. Harry ate, happy to fill his stomach with the delicious food. "Thanks Mrs. Weasley," he said as he finished his juice. She'd tidied the room as he ate, picking up the clothes and items he and Ron had managed to throw all over in the last week.

Collecting his plates, she smiled at him and felt his forehead. "You are welcome, dear. Your fever hasn't gone up much, but you should probably take a nap anyway. I'll be back later with some more dinner if you can keep this down. Just call if you need anything, alright?"

Harry agreed and lay back down as Mrs. Weasley left. He glanced at his bedside table and made a mental note to write back to Clarisse when he woke up.

 

* * *

 

When he woke next, it was dark outside and he was alone. Harry blinked blearily and turned on the lights. It was quiet but he expected that everyone was downstairs at dinner. Harry went to the loo and showered, feeling better after the hot water washed away the sweat and grime of being ill and bed-ridden.

Dressed in fresh pyjamas, Harry sat on his bed again but this time armed with a quill and parchment. He read through Clarisse's letter again, as he'd only been able to glance at it with his friends around.

_Dear Harry,_

_Hedwig is such a sweet owl. I don't know what you told her but she was very nice when she dropped by. She sat on my bed rail and let us pet her a bit. Lucy fed her some of the mystery meat from the canteen_ _–_ _I hope you don't mind._

 _Lucy, of course, called_ everyone _and told them that we're dating, so if you hear anything, she's to blame. Sorry about her, she tends to go a bit overboard._

_I'm doing alright. The doctors say I may be able to go home within a month if my treatment continues to work! I'd really love to go home. My parents visit but it isn't the same. Plus, I really miss my little brother. His name is Sam and he's nine. He just loves football and has decided that he wants to be like Beckham when he grows up!_

_Anyway, Hedwig's looking anxious to go, so I'll finish up now!_

_Love,_

_Clarisse_

_P.S. Lucy's just told me that Mrs. Partridge caught Richards in the broom closet with one of the orderlies, so she's hopping mad on the ward. Warn Hedwig to be careful in case she's looking for blood!_

Chuckling, he set it aside and penned a response.

_Dear Clarisse,_

_Hedwig is a smart owl and if she ate the mystery meat, it should be fine. At least we know it's edible! She prefers bacon though, if you have it. She likes compliments too!_

_That's great that you might be going home soon! Your brother sounds like my friend Ron. He's mad about sports too. I can understand that you'd prefer to be at home, and everything. I hate the Hospital Wing, myself._

_I've been ill from the treatment, so I've been confined to bed for the day. Ron's mum gave me this great tonic that makes my stomach feel loads better, so I've actually been feeling great. Hopefully I'll be on my feet again tomorrow._

_What is Richards doing? Snogging orderlies_ and _Mrs. Partridge? That's just mad. I'll tell Hedwig to only come in if you open the window so she knows that the coast is clear. Good luck on the ward!_

_Harry_

"Harry?" The teenager looked up to see Sirius poking his head around the doorframe. He set his letter on his bedside table. "Ah good, you're awake!" his godfather said. Sirius came in bearing a tray of food and plopped it down on Harry's tented knees. "I was able to fend Molly off long enough to bring you dinner." Sirius grinned and then looked at Harry carefully. "How're you feeling?"

"Much better," Harry said. He looked at his godfather with a smile. "Thanks Sirius."

His godfather lightly ruffled Harry's hair. "I'm rubbish at the feeling-forehead-thingy," he explained, waving his wand, "but the charm works just as well." He frowned lightly as the reading popped up. "37.3. Not all better then. Make sure you take those potions first or Molly will kill me."

Harry conceded, chugging down the two foul brews. Mrs. Weasley had been giving him a fever reducer after the Pepper-Up didn't have much effect on him and he dearly hoped that he wouldn't have to take another in the morning. They were particularly nasty tasting. He washed out his mouth with pumpkin juice and then started to eat. Sirius had brought up more of Mrs. Weasley's chicken soup with toast and some fruit.

"It's been ruddy boring without you Harry," Sirius said dramatically. "Molly's been having us clean some of the other bedrooms. I can't believe what rubbish my family has stuffed in them! Kreacher's been after things again. I caught him sleeping with my mum's nightshirt," he scoffed. "Ruddy menace."

Harry swallowed uncomfortably. He didn't particularly like Kreacher, especially after all those nasty things the house elf had said about Hermione and the Weasleys, but he also didn't like hearing Sirius say things like that. It made him sound an awful lot like Uncle Vernon. He ate quietly as Sirius kept ranting.

"You'd think that after ten years he'd get over it," Sirius continued. "I just wish I could chuck him, this house and my whole rotten family into the bin and never look back." The older man sighed, looking incredibly aged and weary. "But now that the Order's here, I can't get rid of the little bugger and I can't get away from him either!"

"Sirius," Harry said quietly. "Maybe Hermione's right... Dobby—you know, he used to be Malfoy's house elf—he wanted to help me because I was nice to him. He liked me because I was polite. Maybe Kreacher just needs you to be nice to him."

Harry cringed, hoping that Sirius wouldn't get mad. The last thing he wanted to do was alienate his godfather by challenging him. If he had years to get to know Sirius, then perhaps Harry would have waited to say anything. But as he grew to accept that he might die soon, the teenager realised that there was little use waiting. He had to make every moment with his godfather count.

Sirius shot him an odd look. "Maybe your temperature has gone up," he said blithely. "I should let you get some rest." He stood up and grabbed Harry's discarded tray. "Ron'll probably be up later." He looked over at the letter Harry had written to Clarisse. "Is that for your new girlfriend?" Sirius asked slyly. "Do you want me to send it off with an owl?"

Half-worried that Sirius would read it before sending it, Harry shook his head. "No thanks Sirius.  She's a Muggle and only knows about Hedwig, so I thought I'd send it with her when she got back in the morning. And Clarisse isn't my girlfriend!"

"Yet," Sirius said smugly. "And when you're feeling better, I want to hear all the details!"

Harry blushed and opened his mouth to argue but Sirius had already darted out of the room. The teenager scowled at his godfather's antics. Being cooped up in Grimmauld Place had made him battier than Crookshanks on catnip. All he'd done was kiss Clarisse. It didn't mean they were dating.

Or did it? Harry groaned, punching his pillow with his head. What if she expected him to take her on a date or buy her gifts? Would she let him kiss her again? He found _that_ idea quite pleasant to think about. Smiling stupidly, he daydreamed about kissing said pretty girl until Ron came in for bed.

"Hey mate!" Ron said as he flopped on his bed. "Fred and George wanted me to tell you," he lowered his voice, "that everything is ready for tomorrow."

"Excellent," Harry said, sitting up straight. "When did they do it?"

"After you fell asleep, Ginny pulled Mum aside to help her sort out her robes or something," Ron  explained. "The rest of us looked all over the dining room floor and George found a crack that was perfect! The wood had rotted or something and all we needed to do was poke through the kitchen ceiling and we had it."

Harry grinned at their luck. "And you can't see it from the other side?"

"Nope. And as long as we stay quiet, they can't hear us either," Ron crowed.

"Excellent!"


	8. The Plot Thickens...

The Order meeting started at ten o'clock sharp. The group of teenagers took over the dining room shortly after dinner, crowding around in a circle. Mrs. Weasley had nodded approvingly when she found them and left them to their own devices. When her back was turned, they all exchanged looks that had them ducking their heads to muffle their triumphant grins.

Harry added a line to his potions essay as various Order members trooped through the front door,  two or three at a time, whispering and nodding to each other. Most of the people they knew rushed past with a wave or, in Dumbledore's case, a smile. Snape glared, as if daring them to make a comment, and swept down the hall like a giant bat. Moody's eye surveyed them cautiously as he walked past them and Harry dearly hoped that he hadn't spotted the Extendible Ear in Fred's pocket.

Just before the meeting was to start, Tonks tripped through the doorway with Lupin and Kingsley in tow. The teenagers waved to Tonks while Lupin and Kingsley silenced the squawking portraits.

"Wotcher," Tonks whispered, her vibrant hair bouncing as she crouched next to them. "Summer homework?" she commiserated.

"Yeah," everyone except Hermione replied dejectedly. Hermione, of course, was her usual enthusiastic self when it came to schoolwork.

"Snape assigned this horrid essay," Harry complained, poking miserably at his textbook. "Name and describe _all_ the properties of salamander blood."

Tonks winced. "Don't forget to list all the potions that use it, especially Strengthening Solution. It's on the OWLs study list," she warned. With a shudder, she added, "Fifth year potions. _That_ was a nasty year."

"Cheers Tonks," Harry said, seeing Hermione scribble down Tonks' tip in the corner of his eye.

"Tonks, we better get going," Kingsley said in his deep voice. "The meeting's about to start."

"Right, sorry Kingsley," Tonks said, standing up. She nodded to the group. "See you later!"

The teenagers said goodbye and pretended to focus on their studies. And when the basement door finally shut with a snap, Fred pulled out an Extendible Ear.

"Go!" he whispered.

The flesh coloured string scurried down a crack in the middle of their small circle and soon they could hear the rumble of voices. They all exchanged triumphant looks as Dumbledore's voice called the meeting to order.

"Good evening everyone," he said. "Firstly, do we need to revise the guard duty roster, Molly?"

"Not at this moment Albus," Ron's mum said. "Some switches have been made but all is in order until October."

"Good, thank you Molly," he said. Harry could practically hear the twinkle in his eyes at the next bit. "And, I must say that you, Sirius and the children have done a spectacular job on the house since the last meeting."

The twins, Ron and Ginny all rolled their eyes as Hermione and Harry stifled sniggers as they recalled Mrs. Weasley's drill-sergeant-like enthusiasm.

"Now, Severus, I believe you had a report to give?" Dumbledore asked.

Harry's face twisted in an involuntary scowl as Snape's slimy drawl rang out. "The Dark Lord has been growing more active but remains careful. He is still trying to find a way into the Ministry, but has not had any luck so far. Lucius, Macnair and Nott have been given orders to spread rumours about you, Headmaster, and _Potter_ ," he said, spitting out Harry's name. After a hesitant pause, Snape said something that had the hairs on the back of Harry's neck standing straight. "The Dark Lord has also been behaving strangely. I have had to brew three Pepper-Up Potions and prepare two Bruise Salves for his personal use in the last month alone. I thought it was inconsequential before, but I have noticed that there is always a fire in the grate of the main room, even in the middle of the day—" his voice trailed off as his train of thought was made clear to all.

Harry's heart skipped a beat. It couldn't be. He strained his ears for every word.

"Could his body be failing?" Bill Weasley asked, hope coating his voice.

"Perhaps," Dumbledore mused quietly. "But we must not be too hasty in our conclusions. Severus, make a list of the potions Voldemort orders and continue to keep a sharp eye out. Molly and Sirius, look in the library to see if you can find information on the rebirthing ritual Voldemort used. I would be grateful if anyone else could add something to the search."

Harry felt a thought niggle in the back of his head but he put it aside for later. If he was right, then he had _a lot_ to think about.

"Of course," Mrs. Weasley murmured.

"Now, have we been able to identify any more Death Eaters in the Ministry?" Dumbledore asked.

"I have my suspicions that a new aid in the Department of Transportation, Archibald Jugson, might be one," Kingsley said. "But nothing concrete."

Moody growled something about 'constant vigilance' but Harry couldn't quite make it out.

"There's a bloke named Gibbons," a witch Harry didn't recognise said, "I've seen him walking into Borgin & Burkes often. Definitely one to keep an eye on."

"Very well," Dumbledore said. "Does anyone else have something to contribute?"

Harry listened carefully as wizards and witches, mostly people he didn't know, reported on all sorts of things. Dung mentioned something about Dark objects and shady figures in Knockturn Alley and a wizard went off for twenty minutes about someone poking around at the _Daily Prophet._ Eventually, Harry tuned it all out as he realised that there was nothing new or important coming up. His friends seemed to realise it too as their eyes drooped; Ginny managed to scrawl a dark line of ink across her parchment when she dozed off for a minute.

Finally, at around midnight, Harry jerked awake to Hermione shaking his shoulder.

"Harry," she hissed. He looked around blearily to see Fred stuffing the Extendible Ear into his pocket while George woke Ginny. "Come on, we need to get upstairs before Mrs. Weasley finds us!"

Jolting awake, Harry threw his books together and into his bag. The group of them hurried up the stairs just as the basement door squeaked open. The Order filed out, whispering and trying to make as little noise as possible.

The teenagers darted into their rooms, shooting fervent looks at each other. They'd have to talk in the morning.

Ron and Harry ducked into their room, throwing their books where they found free space. Toeing off his shoes, Harry wondered if he had time to get to the loo and change before Mrs. Weasley came up. Ron just stripped to his shorts in the dark, stumbling over something and muttering a curse as he fell with a loud noise. Harry bit back a snort of laughter at the excitement and madness of it all. He was about to risk the loo when he heard someone climbing the stairs.

No time. "Ron, your mum!" he hissed, throwing himself in bed, clothes and all. Ron muttered a few curses under his breath as he stubbed a few toes climbing into bed. Harry pressed his face into his pillow to muffle his involuntary chuckles as Ron settled with a muffled thump. He tensed as the door creaked open for a few seconds and light from the hallway shone in. Harry forced his breathing into a regular rhythm, trying to resist the temptation to look over at the intruder.

The door shut after a few seconds and he heard the creak of the floorboards as the person walked further down the hall. He let out a sigh of relief. "Ron?" Harry whispered, only to hear his friend's answering snore. He'd fallen asleep!

Harry rolled his eyes, sniggered softly and changed into his pyjamas, not bothering to use the loo as Ron kept snoring. Laying back in bed, he set his glasses aside and stared up at the blurry ceiling. He felt groggy but the young wizard couldn't sleep yet.

The Order really didn't know much more than the group of teenagers after all. With Voldemort laying low, they were just trying to gather information about his followers and their movements. The only two real things of importance were 'guard duty' and Snape's report.

Harry had thought that the guard duty had been about watching him at Privet Drive but the Order was obviously still guarding something. What was it? He knew from overhearing Kingsley a week ago that they were using Invisibility Cloaks to guard it, so it obviously wasn't something the Order should be seen guarding. And Snape had said that bit about Voldemort trying to get into the Ministry.... Maybe they were connected?

He sighed. The Ministry of Magic was a big place and they could be guarding anything. The question was, what did Voldemort want so bad? _It's probably the weapon that Sirius was talking about_ , he thought furiously. But without knowing what the weapon was, Harry was no closer to discovering the truth.

He blinked bleary eyes, his mind turning over the second part of Snape's report and the niggling thought that sat in the back of his mind. Voldemort needed Pepper-Up Potions. Bruise salve. He was feeling cold in the middle of summer. Harry almost dared not hope that it was possible, but it was. The timing fit.

Taylor had first noticed his bruises shortly after he'd gotten back from the end of the term. Cedric had died less than a month before that. That meant Voldemort had been reborn about a month before he was diagnosed with cancer. Voldemort had been reborn _using his blood_.

Harry choked as fear, hope, excitement and dread flooded his body. Voldemort could have cancer. Could it really be that simple? He knew that his type of cancer was aggressive and that the longer it went untreated, the higher the chance it could kill a person. And Voldemort had already gone a month longer than him without treatment.

Realisation swept over him like a wave of cold water. If Voldemort did have cancer, then telling his friends the truth about Harry's cancer could be dangerous. Harry knew that Voldemort was powerful, but he was also smart. It wouldn't take the Dark Lord long to connect Harry's illness with his own, and with Malfoy, Rookwood and other the Death Eaters behind him, he would find a way to stop the cancer—even if he had to use Muggles to do it.

However, if Harry could keep quiet, even for just a few more months, the chances of Voldemort finding a cure soon enough to save himself were slim. Right now, only Harry and a few Muggles knew the truth and it wouldn't take much to keep it that way.

 _But what about Dumbledore?_ a voice that sounded a lot like Hermione asked. Harry bit his lip. He knew that hiding something so important couldn't be good for the war effort; Sirius and Dumbledore would be angry and disappointed in him when or if they found out. But at the same time, it wasn't like they could accelerate Voldemort's cancer or anything. What good would it do for them to know?

And there was Snape to consider. Even though Dumbledore trusted him, Harry didn't, and he knew that Dumbledore would tell Snape—if only to get him to confirm that Voldemort was really sick. Harry swallowed roughly. If Snape wasn't on their side, he would tell Voldemort and all this secrecy would have been for nothing.

Harry's jaw tightened. He had made his decision. Not only would it risk Voldemort finding out but if he told Dumbledore then the headmaster would probably have to tell the Dursleys. Fear rose like an angry snake in his belly.

He knew that he'd done something illegal by forging his uncle's signature on his hospital forms, but Harry hadn't had a better option. To everyone but the Order and his friends, the Dursleys were his legal guardians and were supposed to be taking care of him. Harry scoffed derisively. They would sooner embrace all things magical before authorising his treatments.

Harry shivered and pulled his blankets up to his chin. He didn't want to die, he'd learned that much from the last month. And as long as he needed his mother's blood protection, Dumbledore wouldn't be able to do anything about his guardianship or the Dursleys, meaning he couldn't stop them from refusing him his treatments if they so wished.

The black haired teenager firmed his resolve. Until he could get rid of Voldemort, he'd just have to keep quiet about his cancer. Dumbledore knowing wouldn't make anything better and could only make things worse.

Harry smirked wryly as an absent thought cropped up. _Dumbledore doesn't need to know, for his own good._ He felt a rush of righteous satisfaction at that.

 

* * *

 

Saturday dawned and Harry woke up with a nest of beetles in his stomach. Today was his last day of intense chemotherapy before the final bone marrow test to determine if he was in remission. He popped a dose of prednisone in the loo before breakfast and eyed the nearly empty bottle with satisfaction. Two more pills–one taken every two days–and he would be done with pills for more than a week until the bone marrow test results came back.

His happiness at that thought just barely covered his anxiety over what he was about to do. Harry's new resolve at keeping the cancer a secret meant that he had to get a little more creative with transportation. He'd already used the Knight Bus a few times to get to Staines and it probably wasn't a good idea to use it again any time soon.

Muggle transport would serve in the meantime, but Harry was more concerned with his ability to disappear for hours without being caught. Mrs. Weasley had been keeping an eagle eye on all of them since the Order meeting. Fred and George swore that she could smell mischief. Harry grimaced at the thought.

She'd also been keeping an extra close eye on him since he'd been ill. His fever had come back the day after the Order meeting and he'd picked up a cough from somewhere. Mrs. Weasley had frowned and clucked, forcing him to stay in bed for a whole day even though a Pepper-Up Potion had cured him in seconds. Since then, she'd been finding excuses to brush at his forehead in case his fever came back. Harry hoped it didn't because he was getting thoroughly sick of bed rest.

Ron had bemoaned Harry's bad luck to get ill twice in one week but Hermione had looked thoughtful—up until George Apparated on top of her head, effectively distracting his bushy-haired friend.

Harry nervously felt his pockets for the third time to make sure that he had everything. He needed to have enough money to take the Underground and train, as well as his cloak and wand just in case there was trouble. Feeling his trusty cap, he took a bracing breath. Trying to start a fight didn't sit well with him, but it was the only plan he had. With these weekly tantrums, his friends were going to think he was losing it.

Harry took a deep breath to brace himself and went downstairs.

 

* * *

 

"Hey Harry!" Tom, the front desk clerk, said. "Cutting it a little close, aren't you?"

Harry glanced at the clock and cursed under his breath. "Thanks Tom!" he called over his shoulder as he hurried to the lift. His finger pushed the button a few times, as if that would make the machine move faster.

"Late, deary?" an old woman asked, leaning on a cane.

With a _ping!_ the lift arrived and Harry clambered on. "Yeah," he said. "Which floor?"

"Seven, please," she said, stepping in behind him.

Harry wished that the lift would move faster but had to wait as the doors slowly shut and it inched up with a mechanical whirr.

"I'm going to visit my grandson," the old woman said. "He broke his ankle this morning and has to stay overnight, the poor dear. Thought I'd give him some company..."

Harry nodded politely but only listened with half an ear. She just kept talking, nattering about her grandson's favourite toys and how adorable he was as a baby. The teenager felt vaguely uncomfortable and left the lift with some relief when it stopped at the laboratory. As the doors closed behind him, he heard the woman continue her conversation with the lift buttons.

He shook his head, absently thinking that hospitals always brought in the oddest folk.

"Harry!" Maude smiled as she spotted him. "There you are!" She put an arm around his shoulders and led him to his usual chair. "I almost sent an orderly up to check if you were with Miss Clarisse," she teased. "The whole ward's been abuzz after last week."

Harry blushed and spluttered, which had Maude chuckling in response. "Oh, don't fret, dear. There's nothing wrong with a little romance at your age," she said gaily, applying alcohol and inserting the intravenous line with practised movements, "–and it's good to see you in better spirits. You've been right mopey the last few weeks." Maude of course knew why but she tactfully ignored that hippogriff as she tucked the last dosage onto the stand. "I'll just leave you to it then."

The kindly nurse patted his arm and scurried back to her desk. Harry watched the bag drip, beads of clear liquid entering his arm with every second. It was almost odd to think that this last bit of medicine could be getting rid of his cancer for good. That after this, he could be in _remission_. It was an amazing thought—and one that he hadn't come to before.

"Penny for your thoughts," a familiar voice chirped. Harry looked to the right to see Clarisse sitting next to him. He returned her pretty smile and the muscles in his back relaxed.

"Are they worth so little?" he teased. He tentatively reached out with his right hand and clasped hers, holding tighter when she didn't pull away.

Clarisse's smile broadened. "Depends on what you're thinking about."

"Remission," Harry replied seriously but the smile didn't leave his face.

"It'll happen," Clarisse said with a firm nod. "You're doing so well, I'm sure of it. After all, you've still got your hair!"

Harry laughed uncomfortably, remembering how his hair grew back just this morning when he found a clump on his pillow. "Is that a good sign?"

"Some say it is," she said with a shrug. Clarisse smiled wistfully. "I used to have red hair. When I went into remission the last time, I'd hoped to get it long enough to make a wig, just in case..." her voice trailed off. Harry squeezed her hand firmly as he realised what had happened. "My mum offered to have a wig made out of her hair, but it's not the same, you know?" She grinned at him. "She's blonde and I'd look like rubbish with her hair colour."

Harry laughed at her 'vanity'. "I think you look pretty as you are," he assured her.

"Really?"

"Really."

"Thanks Harry."

Harry leaned in and kissed her cheek softly, blushing as he withdrew. "You're welcome."

Clarisse's cheeks were pink and she had a happy grin on her face. After a moment, she spoke. "Your letters were lovely, by the way. Hedwig was so fast that Lucy wants an owl now. Says she's better than the postman!"

He laughed. "I'll have to tell Hedwig that. She'll be really pleased," he said.

"Good, because Mrs. Partridge saw her in our room the other day and shooed her out," Clarisse giggled. "I hope she's not cross with us."

Harry mentally grimaced. For some reason, Hedwig wasn't terribly fond of Clarisse and it was enough of a struggle to get her to deliver post without crotchety nurses shouting at her. "She'll be fine," he assured the girl. "If not, I'll just use the post when I get to school."

"Alright," she said, squeezing his hand.

Harry cast around for something else to talk about. "So... what ended up happening between Partridge and Richards?"

 

* * *

 

His heart was pounding and stomach churned with nerves as he turned the corner of Grimmauld Place. He was so late and, quite possibly, in major trouble.

After his treatment, he'd gone upstairs with Clarisse and, before he knew it, had spent over an hour with them. Harry ran back to the train station and caught one back to London but problems on the way delayed him by another hour.

Then on the Underground, Harry spotted a few oddly-dressed people on the Charing Cross platform. Two people boarded his car and he'd been forced to unfold a newspaper to hide his face. Peeking around it, he eyed the man's kilt and polo shirt combination and the vibrantly coloured dress of his female companion. He gulped as he spotted a wand handle poking out of the woman's handbag.

Harry had never seen them before and determinedly pretended to read until he got off at his stop. His heart raced even after he threw his cloak on and hurried down the empty streets. _This was such a bad idea_ , he thought furiously. Was it just a coincidence that wizards were in the Underground on the same day he'd snuck out of the house?

Grimmauld Place appeared deserted and Harry hurried to Number 12 as it squeezed out from between 11 and 13. He prodded the door open, hoping no one was on the other side to see it open by itself. When the crack was big enough, he slipped through and shut the door with a soft snap.

Harry sighed softly in relief and was about to congratulate himself on a successful trip when he felt a rush of air as his cloak was whipped off him. Turning around, the sick feeling returning to his stomach faster than ever before, he cringed.

There stood Mrs. Weasley, Sirius, Lupin and Moody, the latter holding his cloak, glaring at him. Mrs. Weasley had her arms crossed, a sabre-tooth tiger look on her face, and seemed unspeakably dangerous.

" _So_..." Mrs. Weasley intoned, making Harry cringe and brace himself. He'd never before incurred the wrath of Molly Weasley but it looked like he was about to get that privilege today. "Do you have any idea how worried we've been? How many people have been looking for you?" Harry winced, recalling the strange witch and wizard on the Underground.

" _Just walked out without a by-your-leave! Been looking everywhere—did you even care?—You could have been captured, you could have died! Voldemort would do anything to get his hands on you—"_

Harry's shoulders fell lower with each admonishment and he could feel all the eyes on him. "WHAT WERE YOU THINKING?!!" she roared. "IF YOUR PARENTS WERE HERE—WON'T SIT DOWN FOR A MONTH—NEVER EXPECTED THIS FROM YOU, HARRY JAMES POTTER!—" It went on forever.

The portraits behind the adults were screaming too but for once no one was shutting them up. Lupin had taken the cloak from Moody and he was muttering softly to Sirius. His godfather looked upset—more disappointed than cross. Moody was scowling and his magical eye was staring straight at Harry, as if to make sure that he was really Harry Potter.

When Mrs. Weasley's voice began to crack and whisper, she stopped yelling and Harry nearly sighed, thinking it was over. That was until he felt two fingers grip his ear and twist.

"Ow!" he shouted involuntarily, more out of surprise than pain, and found himself unceremoniously dragged down to the basement with Mrs. Weasley leading the charge. Harry saw his friends staring at him from the stairs and grimaced. They didn't look very happy with him either. Bugger.

In the kitchen, Mrs. Weasley released his ear and pushed him into a seat near the fire. "You just sit right there, young man," she said seriously. "Dumbledore will want to speak with you. Alastor, could you let Arthur and Kingsley know that he's alright on your way out?"

Moody grunted and clunked out of the kitchen, leaving Harry with Mrs. Weasley and two cross Marauders. The teenager stared at his hands, picking his fingernails nervously. What were they going to do to him? Uncle Vernon would have hit him round the head and locked him in his room without meals for a month—but that didn't seem like something Mrs. Weasley would do and Sirius had never disciplined him before.

"Harry," Lupin said softly. "Why did you leave the house?"

He looked up to see Sirius and Lupin sitting across from him on the table while Mrs. Weasley banged some pots around on the stove, keenly listening to their conversation. Harry bit his lip and avoided their eyes. _What can I say that doesn't give away the truth?_ he wondered.

"I wanted to get away to think," he lied.

"Where did you go?"

"Just around."

"Harry, we went outside to look for you but not even Mad-Eye could find you. Where did you really go?" Lupin said reasonably.

"I don't know," he lied. "I just walked around for a bit."

"You just walked around London for over six hours?"

"Er...yeah?"

Lupin sighed, disappointment dripping in his eyes and from his stooped shoulders. The werewolf started pacing in frustration, leaving the teenager to bow his head miserably. Harry knew that they knew that he was lying; that or they were seriously thick to believe that load of bull. Mrs. Weasley clearly didn't completely believe him as she set water to boil with a furious flick of her wand. Sirius slumped in his chair, silently brooding.

As the kettle began to scream shrilly, the fire flared green and Dumbledore stepped out of the grate. His eyes were serious and for once he looked straight at Harry, if just for a few seconds, before looking away.

"It is good to see you are safe, Harry," Dumbledore said gravely, sitting down at the table. "We have all been very worried about you." The abject disappointment in his headmaster's voice didn't sit well with the teenager. "Where have you been for the last few hours? Why did you leave the house, my boy?"

Harry braced himself and looked firmly at the tabletop. "Around. I just needed to get out. That's all," he said. His eyes flickered to the headmaster's face but the man was looking everywhere else but at Harry's face.

"Harry," Dumbledore said, ignoring Mrs. Weasley's muttering as she set tea on the table, "it's not safe for you to be wandering around on your own. You know this. Why would you risk going out by yourself?"

Harry shrugged and looked at his fingernails as if they were the most interesting things on the planet. Wood in the fire popped loudly in the silence. He could feel Dumbledore, Mrs. Weasley and Lupin's eyes on him. Sirius, the one person he wanted to talk to, was still brooding.

Dumbledore frowned at his refusal to answer. "I'm afraid I do not have time to get to the bottom of this, Harry, but I need to ask you not to leave Headquarters again for the remainder of the summer. Mrs. Weasley will be keeping an eye on you and we will discuss this when you return to Hogwarts in September," he said sternly, disappointment coating his every word.

The teenager nodded and didn't look up until Dumbledore had left. He felt bad that he had disappointed his headmaster but he couldn't find it in himself to be upset after Dumbledore hadn't even bothered to look into his eyes or ask more than a few questions. Harry reluctantly looked up when Mrs. Weasley set a cup of tea in front of him.

"You will be helping me with dinner every evening for the rest of the week," she said in a tone that brooked no-nonsense, "and with the washing up. You will also be in bed by ten every night." Harry's jaw dropped in horror as she instituted a _bedtime_ of all things but shut it with a snap at her raised eyebrow. "Dumbledore has also asked me to hold onto your Invisibility Cloak while you are here," she explained, her tone softening at the look on Harry's face. "You will get it back before you go to Hogwarts."

Knowing it wouldn't do him any good to argue, Harry nodded defeatedly, although he did cross his arms in annoyance. It wasn't as if he'd gone out on a lark, not that they knew that, he thought irritably. If they knew the truth, none of this would be happening. _It's all Voldemort's fault,_ he scowled.

After all the chaos of the day, all he wanted to do was go up to his room, away from headmasters and parental figures. Mrs. Weasley must have sensed that, because she said, "If Remus and Sirius don't have anything else to add, go on up to your room, dear. Supper will be ready in another hour."

The teenager eyed the two men. Lupin shook his head and Sirius grunted. Harry assumed that meant he could go and darted out of his chair. The steps creaked as he hurried up them and into the room he shared with Ron, only to find all his friends waiting for him.

"Hi," he said weakly, eyeing the large group.

Ron looked mutinous and Hermione was worried. Ginny, Fred and George also looked concerned but they didn't seem as upset as the other two. Harry sighed and sat down on the edge of his bed, next to Ginny, waiting for the pregnant silence to break.

"Where were you?" Hermione blurted.

The guilt was worse than it had been with the adults. He'd never seriously lied to his friends before and here he was, about to do it to their faces. "I just went outside," he said quietly, refusing to look at them.

"But where did you go? To the park? Diagon Alley?"

Harry just shrugged.

Ginny huffed. "What, is it some sort of secret?" she asked with a scowl.

He shook his head hastily. "Look, I just needed to clear my head alright?" he said. "I wanted to walk around, get some fresh air and I must have fallen asleep or something. I lost track of time, that's all."

That seemed to placate Ginny and the twins, but Hermione's face changed from worry and annoyance to concern. "Oh, Harry," she said, laying a hand on his arm. "I understand, I really do. But you can't just walk out of here like that! It's just not safe!"

"Yeah, I know, Hermione," Harry said quietly. "Look, I'm sorry I worried everyone. I really only meant to go out for a few minutes."

"Don't you think that we might want that too?" Ron asked abruptly, a scowl crossing his features. "You aren't the only one stuck in this place at all hours!"

Harry reeled, feeling wretched. While going out to get poison pumped into his body to kill off a terminal disease wasn't fun, at least got him out of Grimmauld Place. His friends had been confined to the house for far longer than he.

"I'm sorry, Ron. I wasn't thinking, alright?" he said. "And it's not like I'd be able to sneak out again. Your mum has my cloak until term starts." His face was creased with remorse.

Ron grunted. Harry felt guilty but knew that his friend would come around, given time.

"Look," Hermione reasoned. "We're just feeling a little shut in. Let's ask Mrs. Weasley if we can make a small trip to the park for an hour with some of the Order as guards in another day or two." At their doubtful looks, she added, "It couldn't hurt to ask, right?"

"Yeah," Ron said, looking a little brighter, "it's better than just sitting here. That's brilliant, Hermione!"

"We should ask her at dinner," one of the twins pointed out, "just so she has time to cool off first."

"Yeah, probably a good plan," Harry winced, rubbing his ear. The Weasleys grimaced sympathetically.

"You forgot to head her off Harry!" reminded the other twin. "We told you, that's the important bit."

"You must have been in real trouble if she twisted your ear _and_ threatened to wallop you," Ginny noted with a grimace.

"Yeah, that I could handle," Harry moaned. "But instead I've got punishment: helping with dinner and dishes for a week and a _bedtime_." He shuddered, his face bright red with embarrassment.

Ron snorted. "Trust me, the bedtime is better than the walloping," he said firmly. "I can't believe you got the full grounding and everything!"

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Well of course he did!" she said primly. "He could have gotten seriously hurt and half the Order was looking for him!"

The atmosphere sobered at the reminder but the twins exchanged glances.

"I think we have to make it official Forge."

"You are quite right, Gred. Grandad Weasley would never forgive us if we didn't."

"What's that?" Ron asked, looking curiously at his brothers.

Fred and George stood up, waved their wands in unison and popped out of the room. Harry raised his eyebrows curiously at their departure. His eyebrows rocketed up further as Ron, Hermione and Ginny started laughing.

"What's so funny?" he asked. Ron pointed at Harry's head, too busy laughing to explain. Harry ran to the mirror and stared at his reflection.

Everything was mostly normal, except his black hair was now a bright Weasley orange. "What?" he cried, touching his hair. "Why'd they do this?"

Ginny slowed her giggles and looked at him like it was obvious. "You just got reamed out and grounded by mum," she said.

"Yeah, so?" Harry said slowly.

Ginny rolled her eyes and huffed. "It means she sees you as a son," she said slowly, her tone implying that he was beyond thick.

"But what does that have to do with my hair!"

"Can't have a black-haired Weasley, mate," Ron explained, clapping his friend on the shoulder. "Although, I have to say that you look rubbish in orange."

As his friends started laughing again, Harry grinned at his reflection. It was true, he thought ruefully. Orange just wasn't his colour.

 

* * *

 

Sirius sat in the corner nursing a glass of Firewhiskey, the flames in the grate warming his back while the full kitchen table warmed his insides. Harry was sitting there, laughing about something or the other. Ron and Hermione were flanking him while Ginny and the twins sat on the other side. He'd long stopped paying attention to the conversation and really couldn't get himself to join in again.

Ever since Dumbledore had forced him to return to the Black Family home, he'd been sleeping poorly and found himself in a persistently foul mood. Being cooped up, forced to stay in like a good little dog, just didn't suit him at all. He needed to be out there, in the action, helping the Order and his godson. Sirius scratched his arm futilely as a restless itch burned through him. He couldn't blame Harry at all for sneaking out.

When Harry had stomped off that morning, he hadn't thought anything of it. He'd often lost his own temper and shouted at James for no reason at that age—it happened with close friends. He figured Harry would go upstairs, sulk a little, then come and apologise when he'd cooled down.

But when Harry hadn't shown up for lunch again, Molly went to call him down and couldn't find him. Ron wondered aloud if Harry had hidden under his cloak for a little privacy, so Molly had called Alastor to find him. Sirius had scowled. She was always fussing over Harry like that. So what if he was hiding from them? If he was hungry, he'd come down and eat.

But when Moody couldn't find him, things got out of control. Moody contacted every available Order member and Molly fire-called Dumbledore, pulling out all the stops to go after Harry. Molly had ignored him when he mentioned that Harry had probably just stepped out for fresh air and he'd be back soon. But as time wore on, Sirius found himself doubting his own reasoning.

He'd been forced to stay in the house by Remus on Dumbledore's orders, meaning that he'd had a guard body-binding him to a chair to keep him there. No one had listened to him or even entertained the idea that he could help. _It's not like I'm a dog Animagus who could track down my own godson,_ he'd thought furiously.

In the end, Harry had come back on his own, perfectly safe and unharmed. When he saw the teenager standing in that entryway, all he'd wanted to do was sweep the boy into his arms. But then Molly started off on the kid, yelling at him like he was one of her sons. _Grounding_ him, even! That was _Sirius'_ responsibility.

Everywhere he looked, people were taking things from him, Sirius mused moodily. Dumbledore took away his freedom. Wormtail took away his adulthood. Hagrid took Harry from the ruins of Godric's Hollow. And now Molly was taking Harry away from him.

Sirius took a large gulp of whiskey as he watched Harry help Molly clear the table. A part of him was grateful that Molly loved Harry and that the boy had a mum in her. But it was so frustrating to feel like he had no role in Harry's life. The kid was so independent, like a little adult himself. He didn't need his old, ex-convict of a godfather, not really.

The strong aroma of his drink wafted to his nostrils. Even if Harry didn't need him, it didn't stop Sirius from loving that boy like a son. All he wanted was a chance to take care of Harry like the teenager deserved, like Lily and James wanted him to; but every time he turned around, something was keeping them apart. Dumbledore could have let him discipline Harry, not Molly.

 _But would you really have punished him for it, when you would have done the same thing?_ his conscience whispered. It was a good question. If he'd been the one with the Invisibility Cloak, he'd have skipped out without a second's thought. Heck, if Harry had for his advice, Sirius would have approved _and_ joined him!

 _That's not what a responsible parent would do_ , that conscience whispered. And it wasn't. Molly wouldn't have let Harry sneak out or do anything reckless. She would have done what was safest and best–he grudgingly allowed–for Harry. Swallowing another large mouthful, Sirius pondered.

Sirius knew he wanted the best for Harry but those feelings warred with that restless urge to run around like a wild animal. He knew intellectually that the latter wasn't what was best for Harry—as it could get him caught and stuck in prison again—but it was what he _wanted_.

 _Maybe it isn't about what you want_ , the voice whispered, _but about what_ Harry _needs_. Sirius finished his whiskey morosely. The voice was probably right. But did Harry really need to have his godfather around?

The voice was silent.

 

* * *

 

Harry trudged out of the bathroom at the ungodly hour of six in the morning, rubbing his exhausted eyes. He'd woken up at four with restless dreams of dark corridors and locked doors, only to have to go to the loo to vomit violently. He had had enough warning to go to the hallway loo and managed not to disturb anyone else.

As if by magic, the nausea wasn't as bad as it had been after the other treatments and he hadn't even taken Mrs. Weasley's stomach potion yet. The usual exhaustion and weakness still throbbed in his bones but despite that, Harry was feeling better than he had been for almost two months.

His appetite had also returned with a vengeance, leading Harry to go down that morning for a little breakfast. The kitchen was empty and cold, as the fire had become embers overnight. He used a candle to light the fire again, sitting back on his haunches to feel the small flames warm his body. He'd lost enough weight from the treatments that he chilled easily but had confidence that he could gain it back once he was in remission.

When the fire was roaring, Harry started helping himself to eggs, toast and bacon. The stove was an old-fashioned gas burner that had to be lit by hand or with a wand. As Harry struggled with the contraption, and ended up pinching his fingers, he dearly wished that he could use magic in the summer holidays.

"Here, Harry dear," Mrs. Weasley said, coming in to light the stove. "You're up awful early."

Harry murmured his thanks and set a pan on the burner. "I woke up and couldn't go back to sleep. I got hungry so I thought I'd make breakfast."

Mrs. Weasley smiled at him and got a kettle out for tea. "Could you pull out more of those eggs? I should probably start breakfast for Arthur. He has to go in early this morning."

"On a Sunday?" Harry asked concernedly as he pulled out the requested items. He added more bacon to his pan as the oil got hot enough and eyed it carefully. Living with the Dursleys had given him enough practice in watching the bacon.

"Unfortunately," Mrs. Weasley said sadly. "There have been more raids against Muggles and Arthur gets called out for each one."

Harry flipped the bacon and eggs as his friend's mum started chopping tomatoes and mushrooms. "More regurgitating toilets?" he asked.

"Something like that," she said with a smile. It turned into a frown as the knife in her hand failed to slice through the tomato. "Hmm, the blade must need sharpening."

Harry glanced at the food to make sure it wasn't burning when he heard a shriek. He turned to see Mrs. Weasley's arms bleeding furiously as a cursed knife slashed menacingly at her.

"Mrs. Weasley!" Harry cried out. He grabbed the nearest thing, an empty pan they were going to use for the mushrooms, and swung it at the knife.

The force of his blow sent it flying across the room to where it fell harmlessly on the floor. Ignoring it for the moment, he turned to his friend's mum. She was futilely trying to heal her wounds but the spell wasn't working. Harry noticed that the woman was trying to cast with her left hand as her wand hand was unable to.

"Oh Merlin," Harry moaned weakly as he grabbed a few cloths and pressed firmly on her arms to stop the bleeding. "We need to get you to a hospital!"

" _Episkey_!" she tried again, waving her wand to little success. Her face had drained of colour and an awful lot of blood was on her clothes. A large puddle pooled on the floor. Harry blanched. There wasn't enough time for the hospital. There wasn't enough time to call anyone else. Sod it.

Pulling out his wand, he pointed it like she had and shouted, " _Episkey_! _Episkey_!" After a pause, the cuts started knitting together. " _Episkey_!" The flow of blood stopped and Harry sighed with relief.

Mrs. Weasley wavered on the floor, still ghostly pale from blood loss, so Harry helped her lay down. He tucked his jumper under her head and straightened out her legs, elevating her feet with a few balled up cloths. A blanket had been left on the table last night, so he spread it out over the prone woman.

He'd learned several things at the Muggle hospital, including how to help a person suffering from blood loss, when an extra pair of hands was needed during an emergency. As Harry pulled the blanket to her shoulders, he recalled the little boy that had collapsed shortly after he started working for Taylor. He'd started vomiting blood and Harry had been next door in the office.

He'd gotten so scared when a nurse ran by with bloodstains on her clothes that he'd gotten up to take a look. He'd immediately been enlisted to retrieve a spare blanket and pillow from the supply closet and when he'd returned, Harry had watched the nurses do exactly what he was now doing for Mrs. Weasley.

Shaking himself out of the memory, he turned off the stove as the burnt food spit up small mushroom clouds of black smoke, making his eyes water. Waving away the smell, he got a pitcher of water and encouraged his friend's mum to drink at least two glasses. He found half a bar of Honeyduke's chocolate that had been left on the sideboard and encouraged her to eat a few bites before he even thought about leaving her.

"Stay here, Mrs. Weasley," he instructed calmly. "Drink more water or eat another piece of chocolate, if you can. But don't go anywhere. I'm going to get help, alright."

Her eyes were half-closed and she was slow to respond with a nod. "Thank you, Harry," she whispered.

Harry squeezed her hand briefly before running up the stairs. "Mr. Weasley! Sirius! Someone!" he cried once he hit the second landing where most of the adults were staying.

Arthur Weasley stepped out of the bedroom he was sharing with Mrs. Weasley, his robe half on. "What is it Harry?" he asked worriedly.

"Please, you've got to come quickly!" Harry begged. "There was a cursed knife in the kitchen. Mrs. Weasley got hurt!" The two wizards thundered down the stairs to the sound of doors opening behind them, their occupants groggily peeking into the hall. "I was able to stop the bleeding but she's lost an awful lot of blood."

They burst into the kitchen and Mr. Weasley fell onto his knees next to his wife. "Molly?" he said softly, brushing her cheek with a hand. "Molly, can you hear me?"

"Arthur?" she whispered, opening her eyes halfway. "I'm alright, I'm okay."

The older man teared up gratefully and kissed her carefully. "Thank goodness." He looked around at the gory scene around them. His wife's blood was drying in rust-coloured puddles,  smears graced the floor in several places and blood-covered cloths were being used to prop up her feet. Her arms were bloody but the skin was smooth and unblemished.

Harry knelt on her other side and held out the glass of water again. "Come on, Mrs. Weasley," he coaxed. "You've got to drink more."

As his wife sipped, Mr. Weasley stared at the young teenager curiously. "What are you doing, Harry?"

"She's lost a lot of blood," he answered, "and Muggles drink water and eat sweets to help with blood loss. I'm not sure why exactly, but it works."

"Really?" Mr. Weasley exclaimed, instantly excited. "Muggles do this?"

Harry bit his lip to squash the smile that threatened to break out. Mr. Weasley's enthusiasm for anything Muggle was inescapable. "Yeah," he said. "But Mr. Weasley, shouldn't we get her to a hospital or something? St. Mungo's?"

Mr. Weasley frowned thoughtfully. "Yes, I'll have to take her," he said quietly. "Harry, I need you to help me get her to the entrance hall. We'll have to Apparate."

Harry nodded and helped Mr. Weasley get his wife to her feet. She swayed immediately, so they swung her arms around their shoulders. It took lots of grunting and bumping into walls, but they managed to get to the ground floor in time to see the twins, Sirius, Lupin, Ron, Hermione and Ginny barrel down the main staircase,

"Mum!" the Weasley children cried as they saw their mother and the blood she was covered in. Lupin hurried down and took Harry's place under Mrs. Weasley's arm. Harry's shoulders sagged in relief.

"She'll be alright," Mr. Weasley said quietly, reassuring his children. "She'll be back before you know it."

With that, the two wizards took her down the hall and out the front door. Harry let out a deep breath as he heard the cracking of Apparation and Lupin stepped back into the house.

"Harry, what happened?" Lupin whispered concernedly, eyeing the blood covering Harry's hands and shirt sleeves.

The rest turned to Harry as if seeing him for the first time.

"We were making breakfast," Harry explained as they all filed into the kitchen, "and Mrs. Weasley said something about her cutting knife being dull. I was tending to the bacon when she screamed. A knife, I think it was cursed, was attacking her. I hit it with a cooking pan and it fell over there," he pointed to the instrument laying innocently on the floor.

Lupin pulled out his wand and cautiously approached it. Just as he got within a foot of it, the knife quavered and shot at him. Lupin slashed his wand and froze it's movement.

"Yes, this is definitely cursed, alright," he said, prodding it. "I think it's some sort of Cleaving Hex that activates whenever something living gets near it."

"But why hasn't it attacked before?" Hermione asked.

Lupin frowned and waved his wand at the kitchen's only knife block. "Perhaps because there's a Containment Charm on this," he said.

Sirius scowled and croaked out a humorless laugh. "Must be another lovely present from my parents."

Lupin waved his wand and the knife was placed into a conjured box. "I'll keep this secure," he explained. "I'll need to remove the hex before we dispose of the knife."

"And we should probably clean up in here," Harry said ruefully, looking at the mess of blood on the wooden floor. It would take forever to get it cleaned the Muggle way. "I don't suppose any of you know a good charm to get blood out of wood?"

 

* * *

 

Mrs. Weasley was back by lunch, much to the relief of her children. The kitchen had been cleaned up and Harry headed an effort to make sandwiches while Ron and the twins forced their mother to sit at the table. Of course, she only obeyed after she hugged Harry so hard that spots appeared in his vision.

"Oh, Harry! If you hadn't been here..." her voice grew soft. "Thank you dear. You saved my life." Harry blushed, stammering nonsense when Ron and the twins shook his hand and Ginny hugged him.

The rest of the day went by in a haze of studying, as Mrs. Weasley didn't want them touching anything remotely dangerous until Lupin and Moody could scan for hexes. But the downside came, as Ron found out, when Mrs. Weasley insisted on looking at his Transfiguration essay—he decided doodling was more fun than finishing his homework.

In spite of the drollness of the afternoon, evening came upon them quickly. Mr. Weasley pumped Harry's hand when he returned from the Ministry that evening to renew his thanks.

"—I don't know what I would have done, if you hadn't been there," the older man said. "Thank you, son."

Red flushed through Harry's cheeks. "Er, you're welcome, sir," he murmured. After a second, he bit his lip and eyed Mr. Weasley carefully. "Mr. Weasley? Earlier, when I, er, saved Mrs. Weasley... well, I used magic. I had to, she was bleeding so much! ... But, well, I haven't gotten a letter from the Ministry about it. After the trial and everything, Fudge probably wants my wand snapped... D'you think the owl couldn't find me or something?"

Arthur Weasley furrowed his brows. "Perhaps... Madame Hopkirk is quite prompt—Fidelius Charm could have—no need to worry Molly—" he muttered under his breath. At Harry's raised eyebrows, he cleared his throat. "Right. Harry, I'm not sure what happened. It's possible that the Fidelius Charm hid your little bit of magic. I'll inquire discretely at the Ministry tomorrow, just in case they did try to send a letter. But until we know for sure, let's just keep this between the two of us. No need to worry Molly or the Order..."

"Okay, Mr. Weasley."

The man ran a hand through his thinning red hair and shot a grin at Harry that distinctly reminded him of Ron. "Right then. I think I'll go get some dinner; a full day at the office sure gives me an appetite. Are you coming, Harry?"

Mrs. Weasley had really outdone herself. With Harry's help, she'd made a lovely roast chicken with all the trimmings, baked potatoes with butter, hot bread pudding, minced meat pies, fresh bread and a green bean and three cheese casserole, in just two hours. Best of all, she had made treacle tart for pudding and Harry enjoyed two large servings of it.

When he and Ron withdrew for bed, Harry's stomach was still comfortably full, even though Ron's was already beginning to protest for a late night snack.

"Ron, just go and get something already! You've already nicked all my Chocolate Frogs and Sugar Quills," Harry complained as his friend searched through their room, looking for food. "That was the last of it!"

Ron grimaced as his stomach rumbled. "Alright. You want anything?"

"No," Harry said. "Just don't eat all the Treacle Tart!"

His red-haired friend grinned and snuck out of the room. After the attack on Mrs. Weasley, the Order had restricted the teenagers to their rooms after hours, despite the kitchen being completely free of curses, courtesy of Lupin. Harry rolled his eyes and flopped back on his bed. The Order was getting ridiculous with all their restrictions.

 _Thank goodness_ _Hermione convinced them to let us go outside_. His other best friend had brought up the idea the night before and Mrs. Weasley promised to owl the headmaster about it. Dumbledore had given his approval provided that three Order members acted as guard while they were outside.

The good news had brought a feeling of levity to the gloomy house. Sirius had started whistling Weird Sisters songs under his breath and Ron forgave Harry for leaving the house without him. Even Hermione looked excited to leave her studies in order to go outside and walk around in the sun.

Of course, this good feeling was all contingent upon his success at sneaking off for his appointment on Wednesday. With his Invisibility Cloak confiscated, Harry was going to have a harder time sneaking out of the house and Mrs. Weasley would know something was up if he threw a third tantrum to explain his disappearance. If only he could leave the house without leaving through the front door...

Harry sat up straight. If the Ministry couldn't detect the spells he used earlier to save Mrs. Weasley, then they probably wouldn't be able to detect anything else he did in the house. Flopping on his front, he felt around the space under his bed until his searching fingers found the edges of the book he'd nicked from the Black Library.

He'd need to learn how to make a Portkey.

 

* * *

 

Harry looked over his shoulder one last time. The corridor was empty and only the muffled creaking of the house could be heard. He opened the door and edged in, shutting it behind him. Dust rose from his feet as he trod on the filthy floorboards.

After lunch, the teenagers had been roped into finishing their summer homework by Mrs. Weasley. Harry managed to finish his potions essay and begged off for a break, saying he was going to visit Buckbeak for a bit.

Not wanting to waste a second of time, Harry pulled a grey quill from his pocket. It was old, the nib dull and stained with ink. He had painstakingly charmed the quill and a scrap of parchment the day before. Hoping that his Portkey would work, he whispered, "Muggle," and felt a tug at his navel.

Within seconds he landed and his knees buckled. Picking himself up off the ground, Harry had to roll his eyes at the dirty state of his jeans and hands. He really had to get better at these landings.

Harry had chosen to arrive in a small alcove around the back of the hospital. It was hard to see inside it and was quite abandoned. Harry ducked out of the corner and went round to the front, tucking his quill in a pocket. He greeted Tom and the other nurses on his way up to the fifth floor ward.

"Hi," he said cheerily, walking into Clarisse and Lucy's room.

"Harry!" the former cried from her bed. "How have you been?"

"Pretty good." Harry sat down on the edge of her bed and took her hand. "How about you?"

"Better," she said with a small smile. A healthy blush stained her cheeks and a little red fuzz decorated her scalp. "My cell count's gone up and I might be going home soon!"

Harry smiled and squeezed her hand. "That's brilliant!"

Clarisse nodded. "I really hope that remission sticks this time," she said quietly.

"It will," Harry assured her. "And come Christmas, you'll be in school again!"

The girl just smiled and squeezed his hand. "I hope so." A silence grew between them.

"So, where is Lucy?"

"She's got a boyfriend!" she gushed. "A new boy, Eduardo, just moved in down the hall, so she's gone to his room for a few hours."

Harry laughed. "Good for her!" he said. "I'm glad she's found someone."

"Yeah, maybe she'll stop gossiping about us now that she has something else to talk about," Clarisse said with little hope in her voice.

Harry snorted. "The Prince of Wales would have to get married before she stopped talking about us."

Clarisse returned his grin. "True," she said. Her eyes met his and she leaned in to give him a light kiss on the lips.

Harry leaned in more as she sat back and drew her into a longer kiss, his hand firm but yielding on the back of her head.

"Wow," Clarisse said dazedly as they pulled apart from one another.

"Yeah," Harry echoed. "I need to get going—my appointment's in ten minutes—but I wanted to say goodbye before I go. I leave for school next week."

"Are you coming back before...?" Clarisse asked quietly.

Harry shook his head. "Richard's faxing the results to Taylor directly and he'll take over from Dundee directly," he said. "But we can still write! And I'll try to come round during the Christmas holidays."

He looked earnestly at Clarisse. "I'll be back," he promised.

Clarisse eyed him and let out a small smile. "You better," she said teasingly, kissing him again.

Harry returned it, feeling the warm sweetness that was Clarisse. Their lips were rough and dry from the treatments but their earnestness made the kiss softer than a cloud. When they finally pulled away with a small _smack!_ , they were both breathing a little harder and pink rose on their cheeks.

"Goodbye," Harry said quietly, standing up. He squeezed her hand and then left the room with a heavy heart.

 

* * *

 

Harry sipped his drink as he mingled in the raucous party. The edge of the banner for Ron and Hermione hung so low that it hit Harry in the head when he helped himself to another Pumpkin Pastie. Mrs. Weasley was beaming around at the whole group, gushing over Ron whenever she had the opportunity.

The atmosphere was lighter than it had been in a while. Harry idly talked to his friends and the Order members, feeling more relaxed than he'd been in a while. When he'd found out that Ron got Prefect, Harry had been admittedly jealous of his friend, if only because he would be the odd man out now that his two best friends were Prefects and he wasn't. But after thinking about it, Harry realised that he wasn't being fair to Ron. His friend had earned it and for once he was better at something than Harry. It wouldn't be right to make Ron feel miserable because Harry was upset. _Besides_ , he'd reasoned, _with my cancer treatments, I have enough to be getting on with without Prefect duties to worry about._

So here he was, trying to make the best out of the party honouring his two friends. He idly listened in on various conversations as he made his way through his mountain-like plate. He had drifted more to the edge of the party when he heard Kinglsey's deep voice.

"...why Dumbledore didn't make Potter a prefect?" he said.

"He'll have had his reasons," replied Lupin.

"But it would have shown confidence in him. It's what I'd've done," persisted Kingsley, "'specially with the _Daily Prophet_ having a go at him every few days...."

Harry picked at his food, determined not to look at the two adults. The monster of jealousy rose up in him, despite all his attempts to squash it, and fled, taking his appetite with it. He walked toward the dinner table just to get away from that conversation. Mad-Eye Moody was busily inspecting a chicken leg and Mrs. Weasley yawned.

"Well, I think I'll sort out that boggart before I turn in... Arthur, I don't want this lot up too late, allright? 'Night, Harry, dear."

Harry wanted nothing more than to scurry upstairs after her but Moody caught him first. He was forced to stay still as the old Auror showed him an old photograph, cheerfully reciting the names and respective deaths of each former member. Harry felt vaguely queasy as he watched the smiling faces, knowing that they had no idea that they'd all be dead or insane within a year. Sirius thankfully rescued him by distracting Moody and Harry slipped out the door before he could get called back.

He ran up the stairs, seeing those faces flash through his mind, and shuddered. That was awful. Just as he was about to enter his room, he heard sobs coming from the drawing room. He entered and saw Mrs. Weasley curled up on the floor and a dead Ron sprawled on the floor.

Harry gripped the doorjamb tightly, hardly daring to breathe. It couldn't be. Ron was dead—and then he remembered that it was impossible. Ron was downstairs...

"Mrs. Weasley?"

" _R-r-riddikulus!_ " she sobbed, pointing her wand at Ron's body. With a crack, it became Bill, also dead. " _R-riddikulus!_ " Mr. Weasley's bloody body replaced Bill's.

Mrs. Weasley cast the spell again and again, the bodies changing until Harry saw his own dead body laying on the floor. His stomach dropped out of his body as he saw the askew glasses and blank eyes. _That could be me, in less than a year_ , a traitorous voice murmured in his head.

"Mrs. Weasley," he cried, his voice cracking on the words, "just get out of here! Let someone else—"

And then the cavalry arrived. Lupin quickly banished the Boggart and attempted to comfort the crying woman.

"D-d-don't tell Arthur," Mrs. Weasley was gulping now, mopping her eyes frantically with her cuffs. "I d-d-don't want him to know. Being silly..."

She blew her nose in Lupin's offered handkerchief.

"Harry, I'm so sorry, what must you think of me?" she said shakily. "Not even able to get rid of a boggart..."

"Don't be stupid," Harry said, smiling weakly. He didn't think he'd be able to banish a boggart if he saw his family's bodies on the ground like that. For once he was thankful that his worst fear was a dementor—at least he knew how to fight it.

He stayed with the group until Mrs. Weasley calmed down and was shuffled off to her bedroom. Shutting the door to his own, Harry gulped, his mind flashing to all those that died in the photograph and Mrs. Weasley's boggart. It wouldn't happen, not if he could help it.

Suddenly, his scar seared with pain and he cursed, rubbing his forehead. "Cut it out," he murmured.

"First sign of madness, talking to your own head," said a sly voice from the empty picture on the wall.

Harry ignored the portrait and instead flopped ungracefully on his bed. Soon he'd be at Hogwarts and with any luck, his appointment on Saturday would confirm that the cancer was gone for good. Then all he'd have to do is wait out Voldemort. If it was that easy, then the school year could be the most peaceful one yet.


	9. Hogwarts

The morning of September 1st was as hectic as always. Harry woke up to Ron nudging him awake with a foot while the red-head stuffed an armful of clothes into his already bulging trunk.

"...better hurry up. Mum's going ballistic, she says we're going to miss the train..."

Harry got dressed and slipped on his trainers to the delightful screeching of Mrs. Black's portrait and Mrs. Weasley screaming at the twins because they nearly killed Ginny. There was a lot of careening down the stairs and dodging flying trunks before he finally maneuvered his own to the entrance hall.

It was a mess. Harry heaved a sigh when he was finally outside of the house, Mrs. Weasley at his side and Sirius chasing his tail.

"Where's Tonks?" he asked as the stone steps of the house vanished behind them.

"She's waiting for us just up here," the older woman said stiffly, refusing to look in Sirius' direction.

Harry smiled at his godfather's tongue lolled out of his mouth and he romped around. He could understand why Mrs. Weasley was so serious but really, regular breaks from the house were doing Sirius good. The ex-convict brooded less, took more interest in goings on and was more prone to listen to reason than instinct — which made Harry feel better about leaving when his godfather's usually reckless behavior could rear its ugly head at any moment.

"Wotcher, Harry," an old woman with a purple hat said, winking. "Better hurry up, hadn't we, Molly?"

The two women talked and Sirius took off, chasing his tail and attacking pigeons. Harry laughed and ruffled the dog's fur every time he came running back to them. He ignored Mrs. Weasley's pursed lips. If cancer had taught him anything, it was to enjoy every moment of his life, especially the time he had with his godfather. He had to _live_ every minute he had left instead of focusing on overbearing security. The suffocation would kill him faster than Voldemort or leukemia.

The trip to King's Cross proved that Voldemort wasn't hiding behind dustbins to do him in and it took them just a few moments to slip through the platform barrier. Harry took a deep breath as the familiarity of the Hogwarts Express washed over him. He'd survived the summer and he was finally going back to Hogwarts. Just being there made four weeks of painful chemotherapy all worth it.

"I hope the others make it in time," Mrs. Weasley said anxiously from his side. Harry looked back at the barrier, only to be distracted by a tall boy with dreadlocks.

"Nice dog, Harry!"

"Thanks, Lee," said Harry, grinning as Sirius wagged his tail frantically. He rubbed his godfather's head and smiled ruefully down at the dog. He wished that Sirius could be standing next to him, as a human, to wave him off to school. Just once, like a normal family. That'd be nice.

Sirius would give him a hug and mess up his hair, telling him to write and have a good year. He'd check to see if Harry had all his things and promise to see him at the hospital on Saturday, so he wouldn't have to meet Taylor by himself—

Harry was jolted out of his daydream by Sirius' head butting his hand and Moody coming through the barrier with their trunks. He was soon followed by Mr. Weasley, Lupin and the other teenagers.

"No trouble?" Moody growled.

"Nothing," said Lupin.

"I'll still be reporting Sturgis to Dumbledore," said Moody. "That's the second time he's not turned up in a week. Getting as unreliable as Mundungus."

And with that, everyone started saying their goodbyes, voices climbing over one another in the growing din of the platform. Harry looked up as Lupin clapped his shoulder. "You too, Harry. Be careful." Harry nodded.

"Yeah, keep your head down and your eyes peeled," Moody said, shaking Harry's hand. "And don't forget, all of you — careful what you put in writing. If in doubt, don't put it in a letter at all."

 _Good advice_ , Harry noted. He would have to be careful in _all_ of his letters.

"It's been great meeting all of you," said Tonks, hugging Hermione and Ginny. "We'll see you soon, I expect."

The train whistled and Mrs. Weasley started grabbing teenagers to hug, distractedly ordering them to write and be good. Harry paused. In case the doctor didn't have good news on Saturday, this could be the last time he was going to see the lot of them. Swallowing thickly, Harry ducked down and hugged his godfather around the neck.

"I love you Sirius," he whispered into the man's ear. "Take care and please be safe." The dog butted Harry's cheek with his large head and woofed reassuringly.

"Onto the train, now, hurry," Mrs. Weasley's admonishing voice rang out.

With one last squeeze, Harry let go and followed his friends to the train.

"See you!" he called out of an open window as the train started to rumble forward. His friends poked their heads out of nearby windows and waved. The adults began to shrink as they moved away but Sirius loped after the train, his tail streaming behind him in excitement.

Harry, his eyes bright, waved at his godfather until the train turned the corner and Sirius was gone.

"He shouldn't have come with us," said Hermione with a worried sniff.

"Oh lighten up," Ron said, defending Sirius, "this is probably the only light he'll see for months, poor bloke."

Harry couldn't help but agree with Ron. Chances were that unless a miracle happened, Sirius would be confined to the house for the foreseeable future. Fred and George's departure broke through his thoughts and Harry looked at his friends.

"Shall we go and find a compartment, then?" he asked.

Ron and Hermione exchanged embarrassed looks.

"We're—well—Ron and I are supposed to go into the prefect carriage," Hermione said awkwardly.

"Oh," Harry said. "Right. Fine." Ron was strictly avoiding Harry's gaze.

"I don't think we'll have to stay there all journey," his bushy-haired friend said quickly. "Our letters said we just get instructions from the Head Boy and Girl and then patrol the corridors from time to time."

"Fine," Harry said. "Well, I—I might see you later, then."

"Yeah, definitely," Ron said at last. He glanced nervously at Harry. "It's a pain having to go down there, I'd rather—but we have to—I mean, I'm not enjoying it, I'm not Percy."

Harry grinned. "I know you're not," he said reassuringly. "Go on. I'll see you later."

But as Ron and Hermione smiled at him and wandered off, Harry felt a little bereft. He'd never really gone to Hogwarts without Ron before and it didn't seem right to start the journey without him.

"Come on," said Ginny, breaking through, "if we get a move on we'll be able to save them places."

"Right," he agreed, following her. Their trunks clunked and thumped, hitting the rocking sides of the train as they walked down the corridor. Harry tried to ignore the whispers and looks that people gave him as he passed their compartments. He bit his tongue. They were probably talking about what a liar he was after everything the _Daily Prophet_ had printed about him.

At the very end of the train, they met Neville Longbottom, who was desperately trying to lug his trunk and hold onto a squirming Trevor.

"'Lo Neville," Harry offered.

"Hey Harry," Neville said. "Hi Ginny.... Everywhere's full... I can't find a seat...."

Ginny rolled her eyes and beckoned them into the last compartment to share with Luna Lovegood. Harry immediately realised why she had been sitting alone. Luna looked positively barmy with her wide protuberant eyes, the wand perched on her left ear and the bottle-caps strung about her neck. Not to mention the upside-down magazine in her hands.

In what had to be his most unique train journey, the group settled into decent, if very odd, conversation. And when Neville brought out his birthday present, a _Mimbulus mimbletonia,_ to show off its 'defensive mechanism', Harry was able to sport a new look of hand-me-downs plus Stinksap just in time for the compartment door to slide open.

"Oh... hello, Harry," a soft voice said. "Um...bad time?"

The black-haired teen wiped his glasses off to see the pretty Cho Chang standing in the doorway.

"Hi Cho," he said with a rueful grin. "Er..." A large drop of Stinksap ran off his nose and fell into his slimy lap.

"Um..." she said. "Well...just thought I'd say hello... 'Bye then."

Before he could say anything, she shut the door and scurried off, her face rather pink. Harry shrugged and turned back to the group. He couldn't deny that he still found her pretty and that he felt embarrassed at being caught with Stinksap everywhere. However, after his absolutely mad summer and all the things that had changed since Cedric died, he just didn't feel the same flutter in his stomach.

"Right," said Ginny blithely. "Let's just clean this up then. _Scourgify_." Instantly, the mess vanished.

"Er, sorry, Harry," Neville said quietly.

"Don't worry about it," he returned with a small smile.

 

* * *

 

The term was turning out to be quite eventful, Harry noted. Ron and Hermione were prefects, which certainly gave a different start to the year. With Hagrid gone and the other students whispering and glaring at him, it had been his least favourite September 1st. Malfoy's threats–even if they were unfounded–, those creatures pulling the carriages that only he and Luna could see, and that Ministry witch's presence added to the chill that ran down his back.

Skipping the disappearing step in front of him, Harry wished that he could just skip unpleasantness that easily. He shuddered. He should have expected the pointing, whispering and staring after the events of last term but it had been easy to forget. Now the looks and rumours were grating at him.

Harry was just thankful that no one knew about the cancer. If it could be turned against him, Malfoy would certainly find a way to do it and the pitying looks besides would be more than he could stand.

Climbing another staircase, he remembered that he needed to find something to charm as a Portkey before the morning. He'd also need to lose his friends for two hours while he met with Taylor. Getting to the portrait in front of the Gryffindor Common Room, he resolved to figure it out. Then he paused, realising that he didn't know the password.

"Er..." he said quietly, staring up at the Fat Lady.

"No password, no entrance," she said, her nose in the air.

"Harry, I know it!" Neville huffed as he jogged down the corridor. "Guess what it is? I'm actually going to be able to remember it for once—" he waved his new plant in the air, " _Mimbulus mimbletonia_!"

"Correct," the Fat Lady said as her portrait swung open to admit them.

Harry and Neville clambered through and the former avoided the small crowds of people still loitering in the common room. He, instead, made straight for the stairs, intent on his very comfortable four-poster bed.

Dean and Seamus were already in the dorm, plastering photographs and posters on the wall near their beds. They stopped and looked at him when he entered, giving Harry the distinct feeling that they had been talking about him.

"Hi," he said, going to open his trunk.

"Hey, Harry," said Dean, putting on a pair of West Ham pyjamas. "Good holiday?"

"Not miserable," Harry muttered, not really wanting to get into it. "You?"

His dorm mates started talking about their summers, or rather, Seamus' in particular. His mum hadn't wanted him to come back to school.

"Why?"

"Well," Seamus said bracingly, "I suppose...because of you."

"What d'you mean?" Harry asked quickly, feeling like something was slowly suffocating him.

"Well," said Seamus, not meeting Harry's eyes, "she...er...well, it's not just you, it's Dumbledore too..."

"She believes the _Daily Prophet_?" Harry asked dully. "She thinks I'm a liar and Dumbledore's an old fool?"

"Yeah, something like that."

Harry felt sick inside and hurried to the loo, forgetting his wand in his haste, to get dressed for bed. He savagely ripped his robes off and stuffed them into a ball. _Do they really believe I would make something like this up?_ he wondered.

Harry had worked himself into a good froth by the time he came out. Climbing into bed, he made to pull the hangings shut, when Seamus piped up. "Look...what _did_ happen that night when...you know, when...with Cedric Diggory and all?"

Seamus and Dean's faces were frozen and expectant. The anger that hadn't had a chance to wane rose up in Harry's chest and lashed out.

"What are you asking me for?" he said harshly. "Just read the _Daily Prophet_ like your mother, why don't you? That'll tell you all you need to know."

"Don't you have a go at my mother," Seamus snapped.

"I'll have a go at anyone who calls me a liar," said Harry.

"Don't talk to me like that!"

"I'll talk to you how I want," Harry growled, grabbing for his wand. "If you don't like it, go ask McGonagall to move you, stop your mummy worrying—"

"Leave my mother out of this, Potter!"

"What's going on?"

Ron stood in the doorway, eyes wide at the scene in front of him. Harry was pointing his wand at Seamus, who was standing with his fists raised.

"He's having a go at my mother!" Seamus yelled.

"What?" said Ron. "Harry wouldn't do that — we met your mother, we liked her..."

"That's before she started believing every word the stinking _Daily Prophet_ writes about me!" Harry said at the top of his voice.

"Oh," said Ron, his eyes wide. "Oh....right."

"You know what?" Seamus said heatedly, glaring venomously at Harry. "He's right, I don't want to share a dormitory with him anymore, he's a madman."

"A madman, am I?" Harry shouted, getting in Seamus' face. That was it. That was the last straw. "Well fine then! You think I made it all up? That I _murdered_ Cedric Diggory in _cold blood_?" Seamus' face paled at the dark look in the Boy-Who-Lived's eyes. Harry's voice dropped until it was icy and could barely be heard over Seamus' heavy breaths. "Then get out, because you aren't the friend I thought you were."

Harry let those words rest in the air for a moment, feeling Ron, Neville and Dean's intense gazes on his back. Too furious to deal with anyone else, he stormed to his bed and drew the curtains with a snap, sealing them with a wave of his wand.

The teenager curled on his bed, drawing the blankets over himself. Images whirled about chaotically in his mind. Anger dominated but eventually, Harry found all those feelings fading away to a muddled mass. He sighed. He just felt so _angry_ , about everything. Cancer, Voldemort, the _Daily Prophet_...

Eventually, the uncomfortable press of his glasses against the side of his face stirred him to sit up. Removing them, Harry noticed his hand shaking. _When did that happen?_ As he flopped down onto the soft mattress and tried to fall asleep, Harry had to ignore the burning behind his eyes and the lump lodged in his throat.

 

* * *

 

Harry woke early the next morning to the snores of his roommates. Ron was the loudest, his face half-crushed into the pillow and various arms and legs sprawled over the messy bedcovers. The dark-haired teenager moved quietly so he wouldn't disturb Dean, who was a very light sleeper, and dressed.

With his rucksack packed for the hospital, Harry tiptoed out of the dorm and down the stairs. The tower was quiet with everyone still asleep, and it made it easy for Harry to leave Gryffindor Tower unnoticed.

The upper floors were quiet as well but as he got nearer to the library, Harry spotted a few Ravenclaws and the odd Slytherin or Hufflepuff. He ignored the other students and their curious stares, and focused on the third floor corridor. He looked down both ends and waited in front of the empty classroom until a pair of Ravenclaws continued down to the second floor.

" _Dissendium_ ," he whispered, tapping the one-eyed statue's hump. The crevice opened and he squeezed through the opening, sliding down to the bottom. He stood up in the darkness. " _Lumos_!"

Light burst from his wand. He put his wand between his teeth and rummaged through his bag until he emerged with a tattered pair of Vernon's socks. Harry thought hard of the passageway he stood in and muttered, “ _Portus_.” The socks glowed blue for a second and then they were ready. He stuffed them back into his rucksack and hurried along the passageway, his lit wand bouncing in time to his movements.

It took nearly a half hour before he reached Honeyduke's cellar. Harry peeked around the hatch and the cellar's entrance. He crammed his hat on his head and donned a cloak to cover his Muggle clothing, and slunk into the shop. It was nearly empty, early as it was on a Saturday morning, but the shopkeeper was too busy stacking jars of Blood Pops and Cockroach Cluster to pay him much mind.

Harry breathed a little easier once he was in Hogsmeade proper and followed the main road out of the small town. When the cottages grew sparse enough, he called the Knight Bus and it arrived with a bang.

"Welcome to the Knight Bus—"

"Ninewells Drive, Dundee," Harry said, stuffing his handful of sickles into the conductor's hand.

He went and sat down on one of the plush armchairs. The bus was quiet and it only took two stops before they arrived in Dundee. Harry took off his cloak and exited. The Muggle street was busier than Hogsmeade or Hogwarts and Harry walked down it until he found Ninewells Hospital.

It was quite large, much bigger than the one in Staines, and Harry had to navigate various car parks before getting to the main entrance.

"Hello," he said to the receptionist. "I have an appointment with Dr. Taylor." He gave her the letter Taylor had given him before leaving.

"Right," she said. "Fourth floor and to the right."

Harry nodded and made his way upstairs, skirting mothers with crying babies and people in wheelchairs. The fourth floor ward was white, cold and smelled of disinfectant. Harry grimaced and found a seat in the waiting chairs, as directed by a nurse. He hoped that Taylor wouldn't make him sit out there too long.

Thankfully, he didn't.

“Ah, Harry! Good to see you!” Taylor said, walking to him. “How are you? I hope you found this place alright? Good! Let’s move this to my office shall we?”

Harry followed his doctor to a small office and sat down in the hard brown chair. He swallowed. Taylor looked as impassive as usual, sitting across from the teenager, and Harry braced himself for bad news.

"I've looked over your results, Harry," Taylor started, fingering the papers in front of him, "and your bone marrow is free of cancer cells." The doctor smiled softly.

Harry's face broke out into a grin. "Really?!" he said excitedly.

"Yes, really," Taylor repeated. "This means that we can move onto the second part of your treatment, consolidation therapy. Because your marrow is so clear, I think we can be safe with foregoing the combination chemotherapy and instead just stick to the antimetabolites for about four to five months. We'll then see if we need to continue with consolidation or move on to maintenance therapy."

"Does this mean that the cancer is gone for good?" Harry said, a small grin settling on his lips.

Taylor intertwined his fingers and looked sternly at Harry. "Harry, I don't want to lie to you," he said. "There is a chance that your leukaemia could crop up again. Chemotherapy isn't an exact science. But from what I have seen of your tests, I think you have a good chance of going into long-term remission; we caught this quite early."

Harry let the air he didn't know he was holding in, out.

"If you don't have any more questions," Taylor said, "why don't we get you started on your first treatment and you can schedule your weekly doses with the nurse."

Harry nodded and walked with his doctor to a side room with the familiar lounging chairs. He sighed. _Here we go again._

 

* * *

 

Harry stumbled through the portrait hole, tripping on the first step, and recovered, to see his friends staring at him.

"Where've you been?" Ron exclaimed, jumping to his feet. "We've been looking for you for ages!"

Harry glanced at his watch, belatedly remembering that it was broken. "It's not even lunch," he said, raising an eyebrow.

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Just ignore him. He's just cross because he missed breakfast."

"Well you were the one who wanted to search for him first!"

"That's because I thought he was in the Great Hall!"

"We could have at least stayed there and had something to eat before you went running off—"

"There was only five minutes left anyway! Go to the kitchens if you're so starved!"

"Oi!" Harry shouted. Ron and Hermione turned to look at him. "That's better."

Hermione huffed. "Where were you, then? We checked the usual places and couldn't find you."

"I was in the library," Harry said, drawing amazed looks from both of his friends. "I wanted to look at this Defence book to see if it was worth buying by owl order."

Hermione's eyes brightened. "What's the title? I've found several lovely ones but Flourish and Blotts charges outrageously for shipping, and Whizz Hard and Obscurus don’t owl order at all!"

"Er, right," Harry said slowly. "I was looking for _2001 Ways to Jinx Your Worst Enemy_. Thought I could find something good to use on Malfoy."

Ron, who had been sullen up until that point, brightened. "Excellent! Did you find anything?" he asked.

"I didn't end up finding it," said Harry sheepishly. "I got distracted and lost track of time."

Hermione looked as if she wanted to ask something else, but Ron's stomach cut her off with an angry growl. "I'm starved," he said. "Do you think it's time for lunch?"

Harry had to laugh. "C'mon," he said, "if it isn't, let's go to the kitchens. I'm sure Dobby'll have something we can eat."

And so, the two boys, ignoring Hermione's protests and rants about S.P.E.W., clambered out of the common room. The flustered young witch followed them, her words hitting dull ears.

Just as they got to the staircase, Neville blustered up the stairs. "Harry!"

"'Lo, Neville," said Harry.

"Dumbledore wants you to meet him in his office," his friend said, holding out a piece of parchment. "I think it's important."

Harry took the note with some trepidation. After his last meeting with the Headmaster, he dreaded what was coming next. "Er, thanks Neville."

"Is it about—?" asked Hermione. She bit her bottom lip when Harry nodded.

"I think so. What else would he want to talk to me about?"

Ron winced. "Good luck mate."

"Yeah," Harry said. "Says he wants to meet me before lunch. I'll just meet you there, shall I? Save me a seat."

Hermione and Ron agreed and Harry stepped off the next landing, treading the path to Dumbledore's office.

The stone gargoyle had never been as imposing as it was when Harry knew he was legitimately in trouble with the Headmaster. "Ice Mice," he intoned and the guard jumped aside. He reluctantly stepped onto the revolving staircase and took a bracing breath.

He had a very good reason for leaving Grimmauld Place — Harry reminded himself — but Dumbledore wasn't to know the truth. “I had needed some air, so I went out and lost track of time,” Harry intoned. _I hope this works_ , he thought. Harry lifted the brass knocker and let it drop with a loud clang.                                                                 

"Come in, Harry."

He opened the door and immediately saw Dumbledore staring intently at him from the headmaster's austere desk. The normally-twinkling blue eyes were serious over the half-moon glasses and his long fingers were steepled in a probing stance. Harry avoided the older man's gaze, slightly ashamed of what he was about to do.

"Please sit down, my boy," said Dumbledore. "Have you settled in well?"

"Yes, sir," said Harry.

"Good, good." The venerable man took a breath. "Now Harry, I have called you in to discuss your behaviour two weeks ago. I understand that you feel sorry for your rash actions but I believe I must impress upon you the seriousness of your situation."

Harry felt that it was largely self-explanatory, but he suppressed the urge to tell the headmaster that.

"Voldemort is weak and in hiding for the moment but he is cunning and will seize any opportunity that comes his way. Harry, he would not hesitate to attack or capture you if you give him that opportunity. When you are under protection, Voldemort is deterred. Harry, I do not want you to waste your life on these foolish impulses."

Harry almost scoffed at the implication that he was being anything but responsible. He held his tongue and felt it scrape against his teeth in frustration.

"Please promise me, Harry," said Dumbledore, "that you will abide by the rules and not take foolish risks."

The teenager nodded, avoiding his headmaster’s gaze. "I promise," he said.

"Thank you, my boy," Dumbledore said, sinking back into his chair. "Well, I am sure that you are hungry and want to join your friends at lunch."

Harry stood and made his way to the door.

"And, Harry?"

"Yes, sir?"

Dumbledore’s probing eyes met his for a split second before they skittered away. Harry furrowed his brow.

“—Ah, never mind. Please ignore an old man's wanderings. Have a good day, my boy.”

"Right. You too, sir," Harry said, walking out the door. As he went down the spiral staircase and out the gargoyle, a thought cropped up. Why wouldn’t Dumbledore look him in the eye?


	10. Umbridge

Dim morning light shone through the open dormitory windows and Harry pressed his face into the pillow. Staying in bed sounded more than delightful. His whole body felt heavy, like his arms and legs were secured to lead weights, and his eyes refused to open.

“Get up, Harry!” Ron’s voice floated over his head. “You’re going to miss breakfast.”

Harry didn’t even have the energy to twitch his finger.

“C’mon mate,” Ron said, shaking Harry’s shoulder. “Let’s go.”

The black-haired teenager groaned and let himself be rolled over on his side.

“Bloody hell!” Harry blearily looked up at Ron’s concerned face. “You look awful Harry. Should I tell McGonagall that you’re ill?”

He paused and grimaced. "No, I’m alright. Thanks Ron,” Harry said, slowly sitting up. “I’ll be down in a mo’.”

Ron raised an eyebrow and stared at him intently before nodding. “I’ll wait in the common room.”

After his best mate left, Harry pushed himself up with shaky arms and stumbled to the bathroom. His movements were slow but he managed to get clean without walking into too many walls. Looking at himself in the mirror, Harry grimaced at the dark circles that blackened his eyes and skin that was thin and wax-like. His hair fell limply on his forehead. Harry couldn’t help but agree with Ron. He did look awful.

“Stupid cancer,” he muttered under his breath.

Harry made his way back to his bed and plunked down on it. He opened his trunk and pulled out a small box—he'd stuffed it under a pair of Uncle Vernon’s old socks—and his dragon-hide gloves. Part of his chemotherapy treatment included a particularly nasty medicine called cyclophosphamide that was harmful to touch; so he used the strongest material known to wizard-kind for protection.

Three pills were laid out on the blanket, oblong and colourful. They seemed harmless on the outside but, from experience, Harry was wary of the drugs they contained. He scowled and swallowed them.

“Oi, mate! We’re going to be late!” Ron’s voice echoed up the stairwell and Harry's head snapped to the door. “Coming!”

Harry threw everything back in his trunk, grabbed his bag and hurried downstairs.

"Alright Harry?" his best friend asked as they walked shoulder to shoulder.

Harry smiled and nodded. "I'm fine."

"Great." Ron grinned. "I'm starving!"

Hermione had saved them both seats so it didn't take long before Ron was stuffing his face with breakfast.

"Here's your schedule Harry," Hermione said with a disapproving look at Ron. "McGonagall brought them 'round before you came down. What were you two doing anyway? We have class in ten minutes!"

"Hafee lild'd gef ub!" Ron protested through a full mouth of toast and bangers.

"Honestly Ronald—!"

"It was my fault," Harry said quickly, heading off an argument. "I overslept."

Hermione raised an eyebrow. "You do look a bit peaky," she admitted. "Maybe you ought to go to Madam Pomfrey?"

"It's probably nothing," he said quickly. "And anyway, it's the first day of classes, I can't bunk them."

Harry waved his schedule pointedly and looked at it. He groaned. "On second thought..."

Ron grabbed his own schedule and swore.

"Ron!"

"Binns, Snape _and_ Trelawney in one day? Dumbledore's lost it this time," said Ron seriously.

"And don't forget that Umbridge woman," Harry pointed out.

Ron nodded. "I wonder what her class'll be like?"

"I dunno," Harry said, looking at the woman emitting a fake high-pitched twitter at the head table, "but I have a bad feeling about it."

 

* * *

 

Harry's bad feeling continued throughout the day. Binns lectured on goblin rebellions yet again and he and Ron played hangman. After another awkward run in with Cho, Harry went to potions and fouled his potion so bad that Snape vanished his cauldron.

Lunch brought the usual arguing between Ron and Hermione, sending him running to the North Tower. The culmination of his miserable day formed a dull headache in his temples, which was only made worse by the cloying smell of incense and Trelawney predicting his death for the thousandth time.

As a result, Harry's disposition was a mixture of exhaustion and frustration upon entering the Defence classroom. Their new professor sat at her desk wearing a pink cardigan and a bow in her hair. The twisted smirk on her face sent a shiver down Harry's spine.

"Hem, hem," Umbridge cleared her throat and spoke in a sickly sweet voice. "Well, good afternoon!"

Harry looked in askance at the new professor as a few people muttered responses. His head throbbed as her shrill voice rang in his ears.

"Tut, tut," said Umbridge, " _That_ won't do, now, will it? I should like you, please, to reply, 'Good afternoon, Professor Umbridge.' One more time please. Good afternoon, class."

"Good afternoon, Professor Umbridge," most of the students chanted. Harry didn't say anything, choosing instead to stare dully at the woman.

"There now. That wasn't too difficult, was it? Wands away and quills out, please."

Harry stuffed his wand in his bag and pulled out his ink, quill and parchment to a chorus of groans. Umbridge waved her wand and notes began to appear on the blackboard.

"Well now, your teaching in this subject has been rather disrupted and fragmented—" she started reciting.

Harry listened to her words with a growing sense of annoyance as her high-pitched voice rang shrilly through the room. His head throbbed and he felt the exhaustion creep over him. It was only when his eyes were blurring over the assigned reading that he noticed Hermione had her hand up.

"Did you want to ask something about the chapter, dear?" Umbridge asked after ignoring Hermione for a full minute.

"Not about the chapter, no."

"Well, we're reading just now." Umbridge showed her pointed teeth that looked surprisingly cruel in that wide mouth. "If you have other queries we can deal with them at the end of class."

"I've got a query about your course aims," said Hermione.

As Hermione pointed out the flaw in Umbridge's lesson, Harry's back stiffened and he listened carefully for the professor's answer.

"—You will be learning about defensive spells in a secure, risk-free way—"

"What use is that?" Harry said loudly, his voice in time to the pounding of his head. "If we're going to be attacked it won't be in a—"

" _Hand_ , Mr. Potter!" Umbridge crowed, clearly enjoying her superiority.

Harry stuck his fist in the air but she didn't call on him again. He watched as the whole class reacted and spoke up. Umbridge's smile only grew wider as she deflected each question.

" _Your hand is not up, Mr. Thomas!"_ trilled Umbridge.

Perhaps it was her smug smirk, the headache or the fact that he felt like he was going to fall over if he didn't crawl into a bed soon, but Harry snapped.

" _Fuck the hand!_ " he shouted, getting to his feet.

His friends gaped and stared in horrified fascination, as Umbridge's smile became deadly.

"Detention, Mr. Potter," she said sweetly. "And sit down."

Harry slowly sat, glaring at the woman.

"I will not tolerate these outbursts in my classroom," she said, addressing the whole class. "It is clear that your previous instruction was severely lacking—" Several students began to protest. "And that you have been told several lies about your safety."

Harry scoffed loudly, his head throbbing painfully. The professor's voice grated and for some reason everything seemed foggy and vaguely distant. His vision swam and his ears began to ring. These symptoms were all too familiar.

Harry was mere minutes away from fainting in the middle of Defence and if he didn't leave immediately, he'd have a lot of questions coming at him that he couldn't answer. He needed to get out in the quickest way possible. Harry looked up at Umbridge, who was still carrying on, and gulped. He knew what he needed to do.

"I'm not a liar," he said, letting his voice carry.

"Harry, shut up!" Hermione hissed, but he ignored her.

" _Voldemort_ is back—"

"Detention for the rest of the week, Mr. Potter," Umbridge said, "for spreading such blatant lies in my classroom."

"Oh, so I expect Cedric Diggory just dropped dead of his own accord, did he?" Harry countered. The ringing in his ears was almost deafening, such that he could barely hear his own voice.

Dolores Umbridge smiled dangerously. "Come here, Mr. Potter," she said, "and bring your things with you."

Harry stuffed his book in his bag and made his way to the front of the room. It felt like he was walking through water. He paid careful attention to his feet, making sure that he didn't trip or stumble into anything. If he fell over, Harry didn't think he'd be able to get back up.

Umbridge handed him a note and sent him to see McGonagall. When the door shut behind him, Harry felt nothing but relieved. He stumbled to an empty classroom in a nearby corridor and shut the door behind him.

The room was musty and empty, but Harry barely took notice as he sunk to the ground and lay back on it. He felt the pounding in his head that meant that his ears were ringing, but he couldn't really hear anything anymore. With his eyes closed, he felt as if the world was spinning beneath him. The stone floor was blissfully cool against his hot skin. It was only when the chill began to seep into his bones that Harry realised he felt better.

He peeked out through heavy eyelids and then opened them fully with a relieved sigh. He could hear the faint murmur of voices beyond the walls and everything looked normal again. Harry pulled himself to his feet, measuring his movements so all the blood wouldn't rush out of his head. He grabbed his book bag and made his way into the corridor.

While much improved, Harry's limbs felt weak and his head still ached. He only wanted to crawl into bed and sleep the rest of the day, but he still had to deal with the consequences of getting out of Defence early. McGonagall was not going to be pleased.

 

* * *

 

Whispers followed Harry through the Great Hall that evening as he sat down for dinner. His screaming fit and subsequent ejection from class had already passed through the whole school. A grimace adorned his face as he heard the story start again for the umpteenth time. Harry knew that this was only going to add to the stories that he was an attention-seeking liar who'd completely lost his mind.

 _Just wait until it shows up in tomorrow's edition of the_ Daily Prophet, he thought acidly, stabbing a potato with his fork.

“You can copy my notes," Hermione offered half-heartedly through the tense air, "although I don't know how helpful they'll be. That _woman_ didn't teach us anything."

Ron nodded. "All we did was read the book," he said morosely. "After she told us what a liar you and Dumbledore are, of course."

"What is it with these people?" Harry growled. "They believed Dumbledore last year! What changed?"

"I don't think they did," Hermione said, glancing around nervously. At Harry's confused look, she shook her head. "Not here. Up in the common room."

With that, the trio hurried up the stairs to the nearly empty Gryffindor common room. Hermione pulled them to an empty corner and started whispering.

"I don't think anyone really believes that Voldemort's back," she said. At Harry's outraged expression, she hurriedly added, "Except us, of course."

"I think they're too afraid," said Ron. "I mean, you should have seen the looks on my dad and brothers' faces when mum told them what Dumbledore said in June." He shuddered. "It's stupid, but they probably find it easier to believe you and Dumbledore are liars than accept the truth."

Hermione's mouth dropped open. "Wow, Ron," she said, "that was really intuitive!"

"You don't have to look so surprised about it!" Ron exclaimed indignantly.

"That still doesn't explain what Umbridge is doing here," interrupted Harry. In the corner of his eye, he saw people start to come in from dinner.

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Don't you remember what Umbridge said at the feast?" she said.

"What?" said Ron. "That thing about 'progress's sake'?"

"Yes," Hermione said succinctly. "The Ministry must think that Dumbledore's—oh, I can't _believe_ those two! They've gone too far."

Harry was about to ask what she was talking about when he saw Hermione storm off to confront the twins, who were handing out sweets to first-years. Two of them had already fainted. Hermione was yelling at Fred and George, not fazing them in the slightest as her Prefect badge gleamed in the firelight.

He looked to Ron and smirked at the reluctant look on his face. "Want to start Snape's essay?" Harry offered, pulling out a roll of parchment.

His friend grimaced but copied his movements. "The properties of moonstone and its uses in potion-making," said Ron as he read the assignment from his planner. "Do you know what moonstone is?"

Harry shrugged helplessly and turned to his textbook with a sigh. Just as he turned to the page on moonstones, Hermione's row with the twins grew in volume. The two boys turned to stare as their friend came stomping back to join them.

"Thanks for the help, Ron," she said sarcastically.

Ron looked away. "You handled it fine by yourself," he mumbled.

Hermione looked at their books and quills, and threw up her hands. "Oh, it's no good, I can't concentrate now." She grimaced. "I'm going to bed."

Harry expected her to storm upstairs but instead, Hermione started taking out misshapen lumps of wool—her attempts at freeing the house-elves. This, of course, started a minor row with Ron. Harry watched as his friend uncovered the hats and scarves behind Hermione's back and had to smile at Ron's sense of fairness.

"They should at least see what they're picking up," Ron said. "Anyway..." He started packing his bag. "There's no point trying to finish this now, I can't do it without Hermione, I haven't got a clue what you're supposed to do with moonstones, have you?"

Harry glanced half-heartedly at his book as a dull throb rang through his temples. He looked up from the empty table and shook his head. "I'm going to bed too, I think," Harry said, packing up as well.

He'd probably regret not doing his homework in the morning, Harry knew, but he'd much rather relax in bed after such an awful day. Perhaps he'd read a letter from his dad; that would cheer him up.

With that thought in mind, it wasn't long before he was in bed holding the stack of letters from his dad. He picked the one on top and carefully unfolded the parchment. His father's graceful handwriting stood out on the parchment. Harry took the time to savour it, a letter his dad had written to him. Opening it, it almost felt like he was just another kid getting post at school from his dad.

Harry let out a breath and started reading.

_August 1, 1980_

_Dear Harry,_

_Welcome, my dearest baby boy, to the world. You were born yesterday but I've only just now been able to sit down and write this letter, what with all the well-wishers who came to meet you. Your Godfather's in the chair across from me and your mum is still sleeping. You made her work quite hard, you silly boy._

Harry couldn't help but smile at the words.

 _I still can hardly believe that I'm a dad. That I'm_ your _dad. I'm so scared that I'm going to do something wrong and mess you up somehow. Your mum and Sirius believe in me, they say it's just nerves, but I don't think they_ _realise_ _how much I love you. I couldn't bear if I did something to hurt you, ever._

The ink was blurred just there, like water had spilled on the parchment.

 _And look at me, getting all mushy and crying over your first letter._ Harry's fingers ghosted over the dried blurs, as if he was touching his father's tears. _Sorry about that Harry. Don't think that your old man is a sissy now! I'm a very manly man. Yes. Just ask your mother._ There was a splotch of ink on the parchment. _On second thought, don't._

Harry laughed.

_Anyway, I should probably tell you why I'm writing this letter. With the war going on ten years now, I want to make sure that you have a little something of me, to remember me by. Your mother writes in her diary, but I just can't imagine sitting there and just writing into a book. So your mum suggested that I write letters to you. If anything, these'll be interesting to look at years from now!_

_So Harry, here's the first of many letters from me to you. I hope you have thousands more and that this war will end soon, so I can send real letters to you when you go off to Hogwarts._

_I love you, Harry._

_\- Your Dad_

A choked sob made it past his lips and Harry curled into his side. Tears ran down his cheeks and he scrubbed furiously at them. The letter in his hands crinkled and Harry desperately smoothed it out with shaking hands. He sat there, staring at it, and finally realising what he'd lost so many years ago. The teenager dissolved into tears and cried until they carried him into sleep.

 

* * *

 

The second day of school was quite possibly worse than the first, even if it didn't start out that way. Harry woke up feeling refreshed, despite his gritty eyes and the dried tears on his face. He got to breakfast at a decent time and while he was chewing his bacon, Hedwig arrived with a letter.

"Who's it from?" Ron asked, grabbing another two slices of toast.

Harry glanced at the Muggle notepaper and grinned. "Clarisse!" he said, finger on the flap of the envelope.

Ron leaned in eagerly. "What's she say?" he asked.

Just as he was about to open the letter, Hermione set down her coffee cup and grabbed her bag. "No time for that," she said. "We need to hurry or we'll be late for Charms."

The boys cursed and Harry stuffed the letter in his pocket for safekeeping, intending to read it at the break. But when the stress of classes and ever-mounting homework proceeded to bury him, he forgot. It was only when they got down to Care of Magical Creatures that he remembered it.

"What's this? Potter's got a letter!" Malfoy crowed, holding a familiar envelope in his hand. Harry patted down his pocket but came up empty. "Let's see who's been writing the Boy-Who-Lived-To-Lie..."

As Malfoy began to rip it open, Harry drew his wand. " _Accio_!" Harry roared and snatched the letter out of the air.

The smirk on the blonde's face drooped but his nasty smile didn't go away. "You've got no family, you've got barely any friends," he sneered at Ron and Hermione, "so who'd want to write to _you_?" Malfoy laughed.

Harry's wand was still clenched in his fist and he took a step towards the slimy snake. Hands wrapped around his arms. "Let go!"

"What's going on here?" Grubbly-Plank's stern voice rang out. "Break it up! Go on, get to class!"

Hermione and Ron let go and Harry hastily stowed his wand. By the time the crowd cleared, the woman could only peer at the group suspiciously.

"Well, come on, then," she ordered, scowling.

With one last glare at Malfoy, Harry straightened his robes and followed his friends. He tucked his letter more securely in his pocket and reminded himself to be more careful about his post. What if Malfoy had actually read it!

Unfortunately, Harry didn't have a spare moment to read his letter until after his detention with Umbridge. Almost dropping from weariness, he laid on his bed, hand stinging, and unfolded the Muggle paper.

_Dear Harry,_

_I'm finally home! The doctors finally released me, so mum came and got me on Friday. I miss everyone on the ward, but it's good to be home and in my old room again. My little brother's already trying to drive me mad but I can tell that my mum and dad are really pleased to have me back._

_How's school been? Mum's letting me stay in the home study group until I'm well enough to go back to normal school. I'm glad because I'd miss our friends too much. Everyone already misses you. I hope you can come visit during Christmas. That would be brilliant!_

_I'm so happy that you're in remission! Mind, consolidation therapy isn't the easiest either, but at least you're on the mend._ _Didn't I tell you that you'd be alright?_ _I'm glad that we're both okay._

_Anyway, I should go, Mum wants me to go shopping with her. Write soon, okay? And take care of yourself, Harry!_

_Love,_

_Clarisse_

Harry smiled and carefully tucked the letter between the pages of his old History of Magic textbook. He pulled out a spare piece of parchment and started writing a letter to his girlfriend, an absent smile on his face.

 

* * *

 

Harry flexed his right hand with a wince as he cut into it for the four hundredth time that week. Umbridge's detentions were beyond sadistic and there had to be something seriously wrong with the woman as she derived pleasure from seeing him cut into his own hand.

"Keep writing, Mr. Potter," her sickly sweet voice reminded him from her desk. "We want to make sure the message _sinks in_."

He pursed his lips and put quill to paper once more, desperately trying to focus on something else. As he bent forward and felt the press of metal between his shirt and skin, Harry's mind wandered to earlier that day. 

He and Ron had spent their free period in the library, trying to tackle the small mountain that their homework had become. Hermione was too busy doing her Arithmancy homework to give them patronising looks but her tutting that morning at breakfast had been enough to set the boys to ignoring her.

Harry had managed to get to the end of his Transfiguration assignment and was starting Charms when he recalled another charm that he needed to be working on—one that had a more important deadline than Flitwick's essay. On the pretext of finding a book, Harry had ducked into the stacks to find the one he needed. It took him almost an hour but eventually he found it, deep within the stacks.

 _Portkeys: More Than You Ever Wanted To Know_.

He sat down and flipped the pages. Harry had used the _Portus_ spell before, which worked well enough, but it wasn't a permanent solution to his travel problem. The spell only worked once and Harry had to cast it on two different objects every week. He turned a page and it opened to the _Portus Redeunt_ spell. Just what he needed. Harry figured that if he could make something like his parents' rings a two-way Portkey, the magic would last longer and he'd only have to cast the spell every few weeks.

Brandishing his wand, Harry prodded the gold rings, whispering the spell as loudly as he dared.

The scratching of his quill and searing pain in his hand brought Harry back to his present predicament. The lines on his hand had begun to bleed and already he had a couple streaks of red dripping down his thumb.

"Well," Umbridge said, suddenly appearing over his shoulder. "It looks like it's settling in nicely, don't you think, Mr. Potter?" she cooed. "That should be enough for tonight, but I shall see you tomorrow evening, at the same time."

Harry nodded tersely and beat a hasty retreat out of the office. The corridors were dark and silent, the hour being late and most students in their common rooms. His hand was still bleeding, so he wrapped a handkerchief around his fist to stem the blood. Harry then hurried to Gryffindor Tower, hoping not to get caught by Snape or Filch for returning late from detention. They sure weren't going to excuse him for that.

"Harry!"

He turned to see Ron coming around the corner, his Prefect badge gleaming on his chest.

"Hey Ron."

"Are you just getting back from detention?" his friend asked.

Harry grimaced. "Yeah," he moaned. "I'm never going to catch up with my homework at this rate."

"Ye—hey! What's that?" Ron said, alarmed, grabbing Harry's wrist. "Your hand's bleeding!"

"It's nothing," Harry said hastily, trying to pull away, but he was too late. Ron had unwrapped the bloody handkerchief to reveal the reddened cut. _I must not tell lies._

"What is this?" Ron looked as if he might vomit.

Harry pulled away and tucked his hand in his pocket. "Nothing," he repeated. "Let's just get to the Tower before Snape finds us."

"Prefect, remember?" His friend said absently, pointing to his badge. Ron's gaze was focused on Harry. "What's Umbridge having you do in your detentions?"

"Lines," Harry muttered, not looking at Ron.

" _On your hand_?" Ron said, outrage growing on his face. "That is _sick_!" His freckled face was tinged with green. "Why haven't you told McGonagall or Dumbledore? They'd sack Umbridge in a second!"

"They've got enough to deal with," he returned stubbornly. "It doesn't have anything to do with them anyway. This is between me and Umbridge."

"But Harry—"

"I can handle it, Ron!" Harry shouted, whirling on his friend. He softened his voice at the startled expression on Ron's face. "Look, I only have one more detention with her and then it's over. There's no need to bother them with this."

He levelled a fierce glare at his friend until Ron gave in, reluctantly. The two turned toward Gryffindor Tower and Ron spent the whole way muttering obscenities under his breath. Harry couldn't agree more with every single one of them.

 

* * *

 

The weekend rushed all the concerns of Umbridge out of Ron's head as the Quidditch trials took over his brain. Umbridge had refused to excuse or reschedule his detention, so he was forced to watch the Keeper trials from her classroom window.

As he copied _I must not tell lies_ , his hand seared and leaked drops of blood that splashed the parchment. Harry idly wondered what Umbridge was going to do with the parchment when he finished his detention as it looked too gruesome to just chuck on her desk.

"Let's see if you've gotten the message yet, shall we?" she said, breaking the silence.

Harry tensed as her bejewelled hand grasped his. Suddenly a flash of pain ran through his forehead—no, his scar—and he jerked out of her grip and onto his feet, clutching his arm to his chest. He stared wide-eyed at her, wondering where that had come from.

"Yes, it hurts. Doesn't it?" Her satisfied smile was enough to turn Harry's stomach. "Well, I think I've made my point, Mr. Potter. You may go."

Harry couldn't get out of there fast enough. He tried not to jump to conclusions, but the thought danced just out of reach. _Was Umbridge a Death Eater?_ He hurried up to the Gryffindor Common Room and said the password robotically. He was so in his thoughts that he literally jumped when a wave of noise hit him.

Ron rushed up to him, sloshing butterbeer everywhere. "Harry, I did it, I'm in, I'm Keeper!"

"What? Oh—brilliant!" Harry forced out a smile as he was swept away into the party.

 

* * *

 

Harry woke early on Saturday morning and quickly jotted a letter to Sirius, making sure to write in code, just in case. He then ran up to the Owlery just after sunrise. Harry wanted to be mindful of his time, since he had to get breakfast, go to a doctor's appointment and get back before Quidditch practice started.

He went down to the Great Hall and noticed that Ron and Hermione hadn't come down yet. Harry started helping himself to bacon and eggs when his friends arrived and sat down next to him.

"Good morning Harry! You're up early," Hermione commented as she grabbed a piece of toast.

"Yeah," Harry said, "I needed to send off some letters before Quidditch practice."

"Oh...yeah..." Ron put down his fork and took a gulp of pumpkin juice. "Listen... you don't fancy going out a bit earlier with me, do you? Just to – er – give me some practice before training? So I can, you know, get my eye in a bit..."

Hermione protested, citing their mountain of incomplete homework, but was cut off by the arrival of the _Daily Prophet_.

"Anything interesting?" said Ron as Hermione flipped through the pages.

"Not really..." Hermione said, murmuring something about the Weird Sisters and marriage. Harry helped himself to more bacon and eggs.

"Wait a moment," Hermione said suddenly. "Oh no... Sirius!"

"What happened?" Harry exclaimed. He grabbed the newspaper and it tore down the middle with his force. He held one half while Hermione held the other.

The short article Hermione read out proved that Sirius had been spotted by Lucius Malfoy at the train station. Harry's heart sank in his chest, especially when Hermione reminded him of Dumbledore's previous lockdown. There was no way Sirius was going to get out of that house now.

Harry was then distracted by an article next to the Madam Malkin's advertisement. "Look at this!" he said, showing Ron and Hermione.

The short article claimed that Sturgis Podmore had been caught trying to break into a room at the Ministry at one in the morning and was now being sent to Azkaban for six months. Harry recognised his name from Moody's rants at King's Cross last week and Ron confirmed his suspicions.

Harry wondered what Sturgis was doing at the Ministry and if the Order was involved. Did it have something to do with what they'd overheard in that meeting? Had Sturgis been on guard duty?

"Harry?"

"Hmm?" Harry looked up, startled, to see the quizzical expressions of his two friends.

"Are we going flying?" Ron interrupted, to Hermione's annoyance.

Harry bit his lip. He really wanted to, but he was due in Dundee in twenty minutes. "Er, look Ron, I want to, really, but —"

"We all need to do our homework!" Hermione crowed, cutting Harry off. "You see, Ron! Harry has his priorities in order."

"Er, right," Harry said slowly. He glanced at his watch and hurriedly wiped his mouth with a napkin. "Tell you what, I'll meet you both in the library, okay?"

He barely let them finish answering before running out of the Great Hall. Ron and Hermione stared at his back and shared puzzled looks.

"Is it just me, or has he gotten weirder?" Hermione asked Ron.

"Not just you," Ron said.

Ron and Hermione finished their breakfast and headed upstairs to grab their books. But when they got to the library, Harry was no where to be seen.

"Do you think we missed him?" Ron asked, craning his neck for his best friend.

Hermione sighed—he'd asked the same question six times already—and answered, "No, Ron. I don't know where he is." She pulled out her book bag and started laying her textbooks out. "Look, let's just get started."

Ron copied her, reluctantly, and pulled out his Herbology work. He fiddled with his quill for a moment. "Hermione?"

"Yes, Ron?"

"I think something's going on with Harry. Something he's not telling us."

Hermione looked up, an expression of relief on her face. "So you've noticed it too!" she exclaimed in a whisper. "I thought I was the only one. He's been acting strange ever since he came back from the Dursleys'."

Ron nodded. "I just can't figure out what it is," he said quietly. "He's always told us everything before."

Hermione worried her lip. "Do you think it's about V-Voldemort?" she asked, fear creeping into her tone.

"Dunno," Ron shrugged, "but whatever it is, I'm worried about him. He's not acting like himself."

"He looks so tired all the time," Hermione agreed, "and he's always running off and disappearing for ages. When he comes back, he's always out of breath, like he's been running or something."

Ron's eyes widened. "You don't think..." His voice trailed off. "What if Dumbledore or the Aurors are training him to fight Voldemort? And he's always running off to defence practice or something?"

Hermione pondered the idea for a moment and then shook her head. "Why wouldn't he tell us about that?" she countered. "No, it's something else."

"But what?" Ron asked.

Hermione sighed, fingering the edges of a book. "I don't know, Ron," she admitted. "I just don't know."

 

* * *

 

"Ron!" Harry called out as he spotted his friend just outside the castle. He ran to catch up and breathed heavily as he hefted his Firebolt onto a shoulder.

"Mate!" Ron exclaimed. "Where've you been? Hermione and I waited in the Library for you for ages."

Harry grimaced guiltily. "Sorry," he said, "I got caught up in the Tower and by the time I got there, I couldn't find you. Guess we just missed each other."

The redhead frowned suspiciously and turned his head to the Pitch to hide his expression. "Guess we should get down there, then," he said after a pause. "Don't want to be late to my first practice."

Harry clapped a reassuring hand on Ron's shoulder. "You'll be great," he said, grinning.

Ron returned the grin weakly, but even that attempt fell as the drew closer to the stands and saw the Slytherin Quidditch team and hangers-on crowded there. Harry's good feeling sunk to the tips of his toes as Malfoy started the jeers the moment he saw them.

"What's that Weasley's riding?" Malfoy drawled. "Why would anyone put a Flying Charm on a mouldy old log like that?"

This was not going to be a good practice at all.

 

* * *

 

Sure enough, the Gryffindor Quidditch practice was an utter disaster that led into an intense homework session for Ron and Harry. Harry, especially, was suffering as he hadn't done any work that morning like Ron and Hermione did. The three of them worked well into the night but the two boys didn't get much work done, which led them to spend all of Sunday in the common room.

Harry fervently promised that he would never postpone his work this much again as he forced down the last few inches to his Astronomy essay that evening. Percy's letter, which had arrived only an hour ago, had only increased his headache and Ron's irritation. Hermione saved them both by offering to look over their essays.

"What?" Ron said dumbly.

"Give them to me, I'll look through them and correct them," she repeated.

Harry felt relief wash over him and he gratefully handed her his essay. "Thanks a million, Hermione," he said.

He sunk back into his armchair and let his gaze wander aimlessly. He was exhausted, it was well past midnight after all, but Percy's letter left a sick sensation churning in his stomach. Somehow that one letter had managed to make everything from the last few weeks in the Wizarding World that much more real. A person he'd known well for the last four years thought he was a lying lunatic. Maybe it wasn't so unreal that everyone else did too.

 _Sirius is probably the only person who can understand what this feels like_ , Harry thought, as he stared into the fire. A fresh wave of sympathy for his godfather washed over him.

And then Harry blinked, because he could've sworn that he'd seen Sirius' head in the fireplace. He sat up and it was gone.

"...Europa's covered in _ice_ , not mice—Harry?" Hermione's voice filtered into his ears as he knelt in front of the fireplace.

"Er—Harry?" Ron asked hesitantly. "Why are you down there?"

"Because I've just seen Sirius's head in the fire." His voice was calm and even with an underlying tone of hopeful impatience. As dangerous as it would be to have his godfather Floo his head to Hogwarts, Harry desperately wanted to see him, to talk to him. After all, the last time he saw Sirius, Harry thought he wouldn't see him again.

"— _Sirius!_ " Hermione exclaimed.

Harry grinned widely as he saw his godfather's cheery face surrounded by flames.

"I was starting to think you'd go to bed before everyone else had disappeared," Sirius said, starting the conversation.

It was quite informative, Harry thought, as Sirius assured them that despite being a nasty piece of work, Umbridge was more than likely not a Death Eater. Still, what Sirius did have to say about her didn't leave any doubt in Harry's mind that the woman (and probably the Ministry too) was a nutter.

Sirius also brought them news about what was going on with the Ministry and Hagrid, but Harry could sense the undercurrent of bitterness in Sirius's voice. He was still being shut up in the house with Kreacher and there clearly hadn't been anymore outdoor excursions since London.

That, of course, probably precipitated Sirius's offer to sneak into Hogsmeade that they furiously declined, which led to an argument.

"All right, all right, I've got the point," Sirius said, a displeased expression on his face. "Just an idea, thought you might like to get together—"

"I do, I just don't want you chucked back in Azkaban," Harry shouted, feeling a hotness behind his eyes.

Sirius paused, staring at Harry with a creased forehead.

"Guys," Harry said hoarsely, "can you give us a minute?" He glanced over his shoulder at his friends and met Hermione's eyes imploringly.

"Yeah, sure," Hermione said slowly. "Come on Ron."

She dragged a faintly protesting Ron to the dormitory stairs and Harry turned back to Sirius, who face had dropped into concern.

"What's wrong Harry?" he asked.

Harry let out a breath and swallowed thickly. "Look, Sirius," he said. "I can't lose you, you've got to understand that." He stared earnestly into his godfather's eyes. "If you got Kissed or worse—" Harry took a deep breath. "We've been given a second chance, Sirius. I just don't want to lose it by taking too many risks."

Sirius looked guilty now. "I don't either kiddo," he said. "It's just—this house and Kreacher are driving me mad!" He took a deep breath to halt his own rant and let it out. "I'll try and be more careful," he offered with a winning smile.

Harry nodded and gave a weak grin, his eyes still burning. "Thanks," he said, letting the subject drop. "How're you doing on those diaries?" he asked tentatively.

"Er," Sirius's face dropped and paled. "I haven't—" he choked, "I haven't been able to bring myself to read them." His voice had dropped to a whisper.

The teenager's own throat closed up and he nodded. "I understand," he said hoarsely. "Take your time."

Sirius's eyes shone gratefully and then brightened with mirth as Harry let out a deep, jaw-cracking yawn. "Looks like you should head to bed," he chuckled.

"Yeah, guess I should," said Harry reluctantly, a sheepish grin dawning on his face.

"Go on," Sirius said with a smile. "We can talk more some other time."

"Okay." The teenager got to his feet.

"Oh, and Harry?"

Harry turned to look down at Sirius's floating head. "Yeah, Sirius?"

"Be careful about what you put in your letters," Sirius warned, his face serious. "Someone may be watching your post."

Harry nodded gravelly. In the next moment, the fireplace was empty and he swore he could hear Sirius's voice faintly saying "Goodnight!" With a sleepy smile, he tumbled up the stairs and into his four-poster bed. Ron was already snoring away, so Harry just flopped forward, promising himself to tell his friends everything in the morning.

 

* * *

 

He was in a room, lit only by a roaring fireplace. The rug was threadbare and mouldy wallpaper peeled on the walls. The faint hissing of a serpent permeated the room and Harry's heart clenched when he realised who had answered.

" _Do not worry, Nagini,_ " Voldemort hissed from a dark red armchair. " _You shall feast on the brat_ _’_ _s bones soon enough_." He smiled. " _I almost have what I need_ _—_ "

"M-My Lord?" Pettigrew's squeaky voice appeared at the door.

"What!" Voldemort snapped. Harry saw his long fingers slide across his black wand.

Pettigrew cleared his throat noisily. "I have your potions, Master." He held out a silver tray with shaking hands. Harry's eyes widened at the number of vials.

Voldemort took them one by one and swallowed, dumping the empty glass back on the tray. "You will need to buy more ingredients tomorrow," he said oily, grasping another potion by its neck.

"M-Me?" Pettigrew squeaked.

"Yes, you imbecile!" Voldemort shouted. "Severus has grown suspicious of my orders and his loyalty to me has not been proven. I can't risk him telling the old fool." His red eyes glared at Wormtail. "You will fetch what I need from the market and then you will brew my potions. If you fail, Nagini gets to eat you."

The snake hissed menacingly at just the right time and Pettigrew whimpered. "Yes, my Lord," he said, bending down to kiss the hem of Voldemort's robes.

"Now get out of my sight!" Voldemort barked. Wormtail scurried out of the room and Harry felt his vision start to blur. As it did, he felt a wave of weariness wash over him, something familiar that he hadn't felt in weeks. He looked up and saw Voldemort's hunched figure. Harry felt ice seize his heart. _Am I feeling_ him?

 

* * *

 

Harry didn’t have a chance to tell Ron and Hermione about his latest vision before news of Umbridge’s new position pushed all worries of Voldemort out of his mind.

“’High Inquisitor’?” Harry repeated, reading the _Daily Prophet_ article over Hermione’s shoulder, as his half-eaten toast slipped from his fingers. “What does _that_ mean?”

Hermione read it aloud, her eyes bright and breathe quickening with every paragraph. “So now we know how we ended up with Umbridge! Fudge passed this ‘Educational Decree’ and forced her on us! And now he’s given her the power to inspect other teachers!” she exclaimed. “I can’t believe this. It’s _outrageous_ ….”

Harry fervently agreed as his clenched fist on the tabletop shone with the faint white outline of his newest scar. This woman was out of control and Fudge was only giving her more power.

“What?” Hermione asked, staring at Ron’s grinning face. Harry glanced up at his friends.

“Oh, I can’t wait to see McGonagall inspected,” said Ron happily. “Umbridge won’t know what’s hit her.”

“Well, come on,” Hermione said, jumping to her feet, “we’d better get going. If she’s inspecting Binns’s class, we don’t want to be late.”

Harry followed them to their History of Magic lesson but Umbridge was nowhere to be seen. Nor was she in Snape’s class, where Harry managed to get a D on his moonstone essay.

Lunch was slightly more eventful as Hermione nattered on about OWLs scores and Fred and George added their own helpful advice. Harry’s mood was steadily turning downwards and wasn’t helped by Umbridge’s presence in Divination that afternoon.

“We shall be continuing our study of prophetic dreams today,” Trelawney announced, trying to valiantly ignore Umbridge’s scratching quill in the corner. “Divide into pairs, please, and interpret each other’s latest nighttime visions with the aid of the _Oracle_.”

Harry slowly opened his book, watching Umbridge out of the corner of his eye. When Umbridge started to move around the room, he ducked his head, trying to look busy.

“Think of a dream, quick,” he whispered to Ron, “in case the old toad comes our way.”

“I did it last time,” Ron protested. “It’s your turn, you tell me one.”

Harry’s mind wandered to last night’s dream and his worries about Voldemort came rushing to him. “I had a _dream_ last night,” he said quietly, glancing furtively for any eavesdroppers and his eyes landed on Umbridge. He definitely didn’t want to be having this conversation within her earshot. “I’ll tell you and Hermione later, okay?” He desperately cast around for another idea. “How about we say I was … drowning Snape in my cauldron? Yeah, that’ll do…”

Ron snorted, although his suddenly-vivid freckles said he was anything but amused. Harry was just glad that his friend held his tongue. Whether Umbridge was a servant of Voldemort or not, he didn’t want her to hear anything about his dreams.

 

* * *

 

“It’s getting worse,” Harry whispered to Ron and Hermione over his pork chops that evening. “I’m having flashes of what he’s feeling, I think.”

“Harry, that’s not good!” Hermione said, her face white. “I really think you should tell Dumbledore!”

“And what’s he going to do?” he returned, stabbing a potato with his fork. “It’s not like he can just go in my head and stop them from happening. He would have done it by now if he could.” Harry shook his head. “It’s not like there’s much to tell him anyway. I doubt he really wants to know that Voldemort sends Wormtail out to get his biscuits.”

Ron snorted loudly. “Sorry,” he mumbled, at Hermione’s glare. “’S just funny. What if he makes Wormtail wash his grundies too?”

The three of them laughed and shuddered at the same time, breaking the tension hovering over the table. Harry stuffed the last bite into his mouth and glanced at his watch.

“I should be going,” he said, hastily grabbing his bag, “I wouldn’t want to be late for detention.” Harry grimaced as the words left his mouth.

Ron nodded sympathetically and Harry ignored the strange expression on Hermione’s face. He’d have to deal with her in the morning.

“Bye,” said Harry, waving over his shoulder.

He hurried out of the Great Hall and took the stairs two at a time. His hand had barely healed after last week and now he was going under the quill again. Harry ground his teeth together and steeled himself. He wouldn’t give Umbridge the satisfaction of making him give in. He refused.

 

* * *

 

Harry succeeded at keeping his mouth shut in detention, but it seemed his brain had other ideas outside of Umbridge’s office. McGonagall and Angelina scolded him thoroughly at breakfast and Hermione threw her lot in with them when he asked about her opinion. Harry then managed to add another day of detention onto his current week when he spoke up for Hagrid during Umbridge’s Care of Magical Creatures inspection. The unfairness of it all stung at him as he wrote each line in detention that evening.

Umbridge didn’t release him until midnight and, by then, Harry’s hand was bleeding through the cloth he’d wrapped around it. He’d planned to clean it properly and go to bed, but his friends surprised him by staying up to wait for him.

“Here,” Hermione said anxiously, sympathy etched on her face, “soak your hand in that, it’s a solution of strained and pickled murtlap tentacles. It should help.”

Harry carefully dropped his aching and bleeding hand into the bowl of yellow liquid and felt a warm, relaxing relief sweep over him. He’d really have to remember this stuff for later, he thought, loving how good it felt. Crookshanks hopped up onto his lap and began purring, almost echoing his feelings.

“Thanks,” he said gratefully, leaning back in his chair. The orange cat mewled and pushed his head under Harry’s free hand, urging him to pet.

“I still reckon you should complain about this,” Ron insisted in a low voice.

“No.”

“McGonagall would go nuts if she knew—”

Harry sighed. “Yeah, she probably would,” he said dully, absently scratching Crookshanks’ ear. “And how long d’you reckon it’d take Umbridge to pass another Decree saying anyone who complains about the High Inquisitor gets sacked immediately?”

Ron opened his mouth to protest but closed it defeat after a moment.

“I’ll be fine,” Harry said. He didn’t fool any of them.

“She’s an awful woman,” said Hermione. “ _Awful_. You know, I was just saying to Ron when you came in… we’ve got to do something about her.”

“I suggested poison,” Ron said grimly.

Hermione leveled a flat look at him. “I meant something about her teaching,” she said. “We’re never going to learn any defense from her at all!”

“Well, what can we do about that?” said Ron, yawning. “’S too late, isn’t it? She got the job and she’s here to stay. Fudge’ll make sure of that.”

Hermione bit her lip. “Well, you know, I was thinking today…” The look she shot at Harry unnerved him slightly. “I was thinking that—maybe the time’s come when we should just—just do it ourselves.”

“Do what, exactly?” Harry asked suspiciously, sitting up slightly.

“Well—learn Defense Against the Dark Arts ourselves,” she said.

Harry’s ominous feeling started to grow as Ron and Hermione argued about her proposition, especially when her face began to alight with S.P.E.W.-like fervor. He wasn’t sure what she was thinking but he was sure he wasn’t going to like it.

And he didn’t, when he realised that she was talking about making him their teacher.

“But…,” Harry said to Ron and Hermione, his eyes wide. He really hoped this was all a joke, “But I’m not a teacher, I can’t—”

“Harry, you’re the best in the year at Defense Against the Dark Arts,” said Hermione.

“Me?” he said incredulously, grinning broadly. “No I’m not, you’ve beaten me in every test—”

Hermione and Ron presented their argument and ignored him as he tried to explain the flaws in their reasoning. With each ignored plea, Harry grew angrier until he exploded at them, raining the floor with murtlap essence as Crookshanks darted under the couch.

“ _You don’t know what it’s like!”_ he shouted, going off on them. You—neither of you—you’ve never had to face him, have you? You think it’s just memorizing a bunch of spells and throwing them at him, like you’re in class or something? The whole time you know there’s nothing between you and dying except your own—your own brain or guts or whatever—like you can think straight when you know you’re about a second from being murdered, or tortured, or watching your friends die—they’ve never taught us that in their classes, what it’s like to deal with things like that—and you two sit there acting like I’m a clever little boy to be standing here, alive, like Diggory was stupid, like he messed up—you just don’t get it, that could just as easily have been me, it would have been if Voldemort hadn’t needed me—”

Harry’s voice choked, his eyes hot and his chest heaving. He gulped air and tried desperately not to let the tears fall. They had no idea what it was like to be the one Voldemort wanted, the one who had to watch others die when that sick bastard tried to get to him. They had no idea what it was like to have the burden of his secrets, just in the hope that they might end all that suffering, torture and death. Harry sniffed and stared at the fire, letting his friends’ stricken voices wash over him.

“…this is exactly why we need you,” Hermione said carefully. “We need to know what it’s r-really like…facing him… facing V-Voldemort.”

Harry looked at her and felt calmer, just hearing her say Voldemort’s name for the first time. He slid back into his chair, hand throbbing horribly and nodded quietly at Hermione’s question, not aware of what he was agreeing to.

She and Ron beat a retreat to the dorms but Harry stayed downstairs, mulling things over in front of the fire.

His plan was working so far. Voldemort was growing weaker every day and that could only be a good thing. But Harry was wary about the increasing frequency of his visions and dreams. He’d had two in just a few weeks and now he was starting to feel what Voldemort was feeling—and it wasn’t just strong emotions anymore. What if it was getting stronger because Voldemort was getting weaker?

Harry’s brow furrowed and he felt a packet of fear grow in his chest. He wanted nothing more than to talk to Sirius but he knew that if he did, Sirius would just rush out to Hogsmeade and get himself caught or worse. And Harry didn’t think he could live with himself if anything happened to his godfather because of him.

As the fire began to die, Harry firmed his resolve. If the connection’s strength was a result of Voldemort weakening then there was no reason to get anyone else involved. He’d just have to wait it out and, sooner or later, Voldemort would die. Harry had to believe that.


	11. Sirius Matters

Two weeks passed before Hermione mentioned her Defence idea again.

Harry had been mulling it over, among several other concerns on the forefront of his mind, and concluded that it wasn't a bad plan... He just wasn’t sure he wanted to be the one teaching.

Being the focus of attention was one thing, but he already had enough to be getting on with in his life without the additional burden of teaching Defence to his friends. However, that didn’t stop his traitorous mind from coming up with lesson plans for all of the useful spells he knew.

So when Hermione brought up the subject, Harry agreed, albeit reluctantly. And when she said that it shouldn’t just be the three of them, he was skeptical but figured that one or two more wouldn’t hurt. Of course, that was before he saw the group of 25 that came to join them in the Hog's Head.

“A couple of people?” Harry choked as he saw the large crowd congregating before them. “ _A couple of people?_ ”

“Yes, well, the idea seemed quite popular,” Hermione said cheerily, ignoring his spluttering. “Ron, do you want to pull up some more chairs?”

The whole thing was an unmitigated disaster, in Harry’s opinion. He was quickly prodded about the Cedric Diggory debacle and then all the mad things he’d gotten up to over the years, from Basilisk-slaying to the Triwizard Tournament. When they finally got on topic, the group started arguing about when to hold the meetings, then shouted a bit about Umbridge, until finally, Hermione and Luna started having a go at each other over whether heliopaths existed or not.

But as they walked out of the Hog’s Head that afternoon, Hermione’s bright grin and the scroll of names in her bag said that Harry shouldn’t mention how awful the meeting was if he wanted to keep his head.

The three of them continued down the street and stopped at the quill shop. As Hermione searched for a new quill, the conversation wandered from the Defence group to the people who came to the meeting. And when Hermione mentioned that Michael Corner and Ginny were dating, Ron threw a fit.

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Ron,” she said at last, standing on his foot, “this is exactly why Ginny hasn’t told you she’s seeing Michael; she knew you’d take it badly. So don’t harp on about it, for heaven’s sake.”

“What d’you mean, who’s taking anything badly? I’m not going to _harp on_ about anything…”

Ron muttered all the way out of the store and down the street, Hermione and Harry following in his wake.

“So,” she asked, poking Harry in the arm, “have you talked to Cho yet?”

Harry shot a bewildered look at her. “What d'you mean?” he asked, taken aback.

Hermione huffed. “Well it’s obvious that she couldn’t take her eyes off you the whole meeting,” she said, “which means she probably doesn’t know that you’re seeing someone else.”

“Oh,” Harry said, almost sighing in relief. He’d half thought that Hermione was wondering if he was going to talk to Cho about Cedric.

“You should tell her,” Hermione said. “She shouldn’t have to go around mooning at you if you aren’t going to do anything about it.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Harry said with a grimace. At Hermione’s insistent expression, he reluctantly added, “I’ll talk to her later.”

Hermione shot him a knowing look but decided to leave the subject for now. Hurrying to catch up with Ron, who’d stopped muttering and had paused to wait for them, she started chattering about something or other.

Harry followed his friends quietly, as the group wandered through the small village, passing by the Three Broomsticks and window-shopping at Zonko’s. He was busy thinking about the letter he’d received, not two days ago, from Clarisse.

The letter was a little shorter than he’d expected, what with her being home again and getting ready to go back to school. She told him that all their friends in the study group were missing him and asked him again if he was coming back for Christmas. Harry really wanted to go, but, as going to Surrey meant spending the holidays with the Dursleys, he was a little reluctant to agree right off. They wouldn't be happy if he showed up for Christmas. Maybe if he spent the holiday with Sirius, he'd be able to sneak off again?

The whole situation was complicated. Harry had written her back, saying that he’d ask his godfather for permission and then he’d let her know. He’d also asked questions about what she’d want for Christmas and told her, in brief, what was he was doing at school. It was only when he’d penned his name at the end of the letter, did he realise how short it actually was. When you took out cancer, there wasn’t much he could tell her about his life, especially when she didn’t know about magic.

Harry sighed loudly, tucking his hands into his pockets and scuffing at the ground with his trainers. His big plans to ask Dumbledore for permission to tell her had quickly fizzled out over the last couple of weeks, as Dumbledore refused to talk to him. Harry wished he could just tell her the truth and not have to worry about getting permission. Clarisse could handle imminent death just fine, so who’s to say she couldn’t handle knowing about magic too?

“What’s up, mate?” Ron asked, sidling up next to him. “You look deep in thought.”

Harry sighed again and shrugged. “Nothing much, I guess,” he said. “Just thinking.”

“About?” That was Hermione, bumping into his other side.

“Clarisse.”

Ron and Hermione exchanged knowing looks.

“So why’re you sighing?” Ron prodded. “Usually you’re grinning like a loon.”

Harry rubbed the back of his neck. “I dunno,” he said unhappily, kicking at a stone on the path. “I guess it’s just… in the summer, we could just talk and things were simple. But now, with me being here…”

“There’s not much you can say without bringing up magic,” Hermione finished, nodding wisely.

“Yeah,” Harry said, sighing once more. “I just wish I could tell her. It’d make everything easier.”

“So why don’t you?” Ron asked. Hermione and Harry looked at him incredulously. “Don’t look at me like that! Yeah, I know the Statute of Secrecy says you can’t, but Hermione, your parents know, don’t they?”

Hermione nodded slowly. “But my parents needed to know because I'm a witch,” she said carefully, glancing at Harry. “I don’t know if the law applies to telling your girlfriends or boyfriends.”

"I was going to ask Dumbledore for permission, but he won't even stay in the same room with me long enough for me to ask him," Harry said glumly.

"So what?" Ron shrugged. “It’s not like you're going to be telling the whole world. She’s just one person. As long as she keeps it to herself, who's going to know that you told? Clarisse wouldn’t tell, would she Harry?”

“No, she wouldn’t,” Harry said, a grin slowly erupting on his face. "That’s brilliant Ron!” His whole face brightened and he started walking with a skip in his step.

He wouldn’t tell her in a letter, no that wouldn’t be right. He'd have to tell her in person, so Christmas would be his best chance. Harry grinned. He would make her a _magical_ gift, something really pretty just for her and give it to her after he told her. It was perfect!

Ron looked very pleased with himself and Hermione was about an inch from protesting when the former trod on her foot.

“ _What?_ ” Hermione hissed, glaring at Ron.

“Look at how happy he is,” the redhead said, glancing at Harry. “Don’t ruin it for him.”

Hermione huffed. “But he shouldn’t tell his girlfriend about magic!” she argued hotly, keeping her voice low so Harry wouldn’t hear them. “It’s dangerous, not just for him but for her as well.”

Ron sighed. “Look, we both know that,” he said quietly, crossing his arms, “but look at how awful this year has been so far for him.” He eyed his best friend. “The only time he’s really happy is when he’s reading her letters or talking about her.” Hermione looked at the ground, knowing that this was true. “If telling her the truth is what’s going to make him happy, then I say that we should let him do it.”

“Fine,” Hermione said reluctantly. Ron inclined his head in thanks and hurried to catch up with Harry, who’d gone on ahead. Hermione looked at her two best friends, who were chortling with their arms swung round each other’s necks. She huffed and sped up to keep up with them, muttering under her breath.

 

* * *

 

A short man stepped out of the small apothecary, gingerly tucking several bags and phials of ingredients into a larger brown bag. He was sweating profusely and was glancing around the crowded street. No one seemed to pay him any mind as he made his way past several groups of people, heading for the arch at the mouth of Diagon Alley.

A group of witches passed in front of him, chattering about makeup charms, and one bumped his hand, causing him to drop the sack. It crunched when it hit the ground and the man hastily bent to check that nothing had broken or been damaged. He sighed in relief when all the potion ingredients were intact and stood, trying not to hit anyone else.

Then he saw him. That old friend of his, standing just under the arch leading to the Leaky Cauldron. Remus Lupin, looking worn and aged as he always did just before the full moon, was furrowing his brow, glancing around curiously. The shorter man’s eyes widened and he backed into a small alley off the main street, praying that Remus hadn’t spotted him.

He had planned to wait until Remus walked further down the alley, but his Dark Mark changed things when it started to burn unpleasantly. The Dark Lord wanted him. Biting back a yelp of pain, he looked out into the Alley and saw Remus standing just so between his alley and the way out. The werewolf was chatting with a young pink-haired witch and clearly had no intention of walking away anytime soon. The pain in his arm skyrocketed as the Dark Lord called even more insistently.

There was nothing for it. Peter Pettigrew transformed into a rat and ducked out of his nook, pointedly skirting Remus Lupin and his witch. He made his way to the exit, only to realise that he needed to be in human form to tap open the brick wall. Squeaking in frustration, he craned his neck to check that no one was looking back at him, and transformed. Peter turned, to see a group of Aurors standing in the now-open archway, staring at him.

Peter jumped in surprise, stumbling back. Several Aurors raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment, so he blushed and ducked his head. “Excuse me,” he mumbled, hurrying aside.

He was almost out of the archway when one of the Aurors called him back. Peter paled and turned around, eyes wide and mouth dry.

“Er, yes?” he stammered nervously, licking his lips. His arm was burning steadily and his whole body itched to hurry out of there.

The man who called him back was a pompous fellow with a red face and coiffed grey hair. “Sir, I believe you dropped this,” he blustered, holding out Peter’s wand.

Sweating profusely, he forced a smile on his face and leaned forward to take his wand with his right hand. It glinted in the sunlight, catching the eye of a large black Auror in the back. He stepped forward and smiled cheerfully.

“That was an excellent transformation,” he said smoothly before Peter could accept his wand and hurry off. “Where did you learn to become an Animagus?”

“Uh--well that’s--I should--someone’s expect--,” Peter stammered.

“Hogwarts,” the pompous Auror said. “I can definitely see McGonagall’s hand. The best Transfiguration Mistress this side of the Continent!” He puffed out his chest. “We share a great-grandfather! Great man…”

Sweat was rolling down Peter’s forehead by this point and his skin was taking on a paper-like colour. He bit his lip, trying not to cry out as the Dark Mark burned more insistently.

“Reginald,” the Auror who’d noticed Peter’s hand, interjected the pompous Auror’s rambling in his deep tone, “didn’t you say once that your cousin was one of _seven_ registered Animagi this century? I thought the youngest was Dirinius Moon. He registered in, what, 1962?”

“That’s right,” Reginald agreed, looking shrewdly at Peter. “How old are you, young man?”

“Er…I…well, that is--,” Peter stammered, backing away from the group.

“I’m sure you must have filed your registration with the Improper Use of Magic Office very recently and our office just hasn’t been informed as yet,” the black Auror said calmly, holding out his hand, “but if you could show us proof of registration, we can let you go about the rest of your day.”

Peter panicked and bolted, transforming mid-step for the Leaky Cauldron. He made for a crack at the base of Tom's bar when a spell caught him and floated his rat form to the group of frowning Aurors.

“Guess we won’t be having lunch after all, boys,” Reginald said, folding his arms across his chest, eyeing their bobbing prisoner.

Kingsley Shacklebolt eyed the prize from the back of the group with a gimlet eye as the rat squealed and squirmed.

 

* * *

 

The Order was in uproar that evening as Dumbledore called an emergency meeting and Kingsley recounted the events of the day in detail. Sirius was staring straight ahead, completely missing that his Firewhiskey forming a puddle on the floor as it dripped from the goblet in his slack hand. His gaze refocused when Remus’ voice penetrated the din.

“I was there,” his friend said blankly. “I was in Diagon Alley today, getting new robes, and… that must be why he transformed! Remember Tonks, we were talking just outside of the entrance!”

“What luck!” Tonks exclaimed. “Why, if you’d been just a tad late or if Kingsley’s team had decided to eat lunch at the Cauldron…”

“I wouldn’t be free,” Sirius finished dazedly. Everyone turned to him and he sat up, staring feverishly at Kingsley. “I am free, aren’t I?”

Kingsley shook his head. “Not yet,” he said, putting his hands up to preemptively placate Sirius, “but trust me, you will be. Pettigrew was screaming, holding his left arm, when we reversed his transformation in the Holding Cells. We found the Dark Mark on his arm. Trust me, it’s just a matter of time before there’s a full inquiry. The truth will come out, just give it a few more days.”

Sirius frowned and muttered to himself about waiting for thirteen years already, but, used to his ramblings, everyone else moved on.

“What about the Dark Mark?” Bill Weasley asked, leaning forward. “Surely if they’ve seen how dark it is, they would have made the connection that You-Know-Who is back?”

Even Dumbledore looked at Kingsley intently at that, but the man shook his head. “Only my team and Rufus know that Pettigrew was found with the Mark and, for now, they’re keeping it quiet.”

Snape sneered. “Even if they do tell someone,” he said with a scowl, “it still won’t be proof enough for the Minister.”

Everyone tried to speak at once, but Dumbledore interceded. “Severus is right,” he said calmly. “The Minister will need to see Voldemort in front of his own eyes to believe the truth.” He sighed disappointedly and turned the conversation. “Instead we must take heart at Kingsley’s news. Without his servant, Voldemort’s position is weaker than before and we can only hope that this will slow his advances greatly and buy us more time to prepare for the war.”

 

* * *

 

Harry sat upright in bed, gasping and sweaty, as his scar burned. He could still hear Voldemort’s angry screams from his vision and shakily wandered to the bathroom. The cool cascade of water across his clammy forehead and cheeks brought some relief to his tense shoulders. Leaning back from the sink, Harry eyed the ghostly reflection in the mirror and examined the angry scar that was prickling less by the minute.

He’d been up late the night before, catching up with homework, and had finally finished in the early hours of Monday morning. Ron and Hermione had finished long before him, as they’d been doing their work while he was in Dundee getting his weekly treatment.

Harry sighed and grimaced. These new treatments were almost worse than the older ones. He was lightheaded, tired and mildly nauseas all the time now, instead of only two or three days in a week. Dr. Taylor seemed optimistic, however, that the treatment was working, so he swallowed the complaints and tried to cheer himself. The program wouldn't last forever and then he wouldn't need the treatment ever again.

Yawning, he made his way back to bed and crawled between his sweat-dampened sheets, grimacing. It was too cold in the tower to sleep on top of his blankets, so even though the wet cloth felt uncomfortable against his skin, Harry had to make do until morning.

He shut his eyes, vaguely wondering what Voldemort had been so angry about. He fell asleep before he could remember.

 

* * *

 

It was inevitable that Umbridge would find out about their new study group but none of them ever expected that she would find out so soon. On Monday morning, the latest of her Educational Decrees was posted on the common room notice board, dwarfing everything else in its wake. All student groups larger than three students were disbanded and needed the Hogwarts High Inquisitor's permission to be reinstated.

Harry's heart sunk to the bottom of his shoes. The breakfast was completely chaotic as students worried about their clubs, the Quidditch teams and other extracurricular activities. Fred, George and Ginny asked about the defence group and Harry felt a bit of satisfaction when they all agreed to go on as planned. It finally felt like he was actually doing something to stand up to Voldemort and the Ministry.

Of course, what happened during History didn't help matters. He had been studiously ignoring Binns and Hermione's prodding as he doodled in the margins of his book, when  his friend poked him sharp enough to draw his attention.

" _What?_ " he hissed.

Hermione's point had him looking to the window, where Hedwig was perched. Harry raised an eyebrow. The letter on her leg told him where she'd been, but why hadn't she delivered it at breakfast as she normally did?

It wasn't until he'd let Hedwig in and she was sitting on his lap that he noticed her oddly ruffled feathers and her bent wing.

"She's hurt!" Harry exclaimed, bending closer. "Look, there's something wrong with her wing—"

He went to touch it and Hedwig jerked, puffing up and giving him a baleful look.

"Professor, I'm not feeling well!" Harry quickly made his excuses and hustled out of the room. Binns hardly cared, as he went back to reading about goblins in his incessant monotone.

Further down the corridor, he paused to think. With Hagrid gone, who would he take Hedwig to? The only one he could think of was Grubbly-Plank. He looked out the window but she wasn't anywhere near Hagrid's cabin, which meant she'd be in the staff room.

Harry hustled downstairs, trying not to jostle Hedwig's precarious position on his shoulder.

The stone gargoyles in front of the staffroom gave him lip, but at his knock, McGonagall answered.

"You haven't been given another detention!" she said upon seeing him, her eyes flashing. Harry highly doubted he'd survive telling her if he had.

"No, Professor!" he said hastily.

"Well then, why are you out of class?"

"It's _urgent_ , apparently," a stone gargoyle mocked. Harry had a sudden urge to kick it.

"I'm looking for Professor Grubby-Plank," said Harry. "It's my owl, she's injured."

Grubbly-Plank took that moment to appear over McGonagall's shoulder, smoking a pipe. Harry showed her Hedwig's wing and explained what happened.

"Hmm," Grubbly-Plank said, examining Hedwig. "Looks like something's attacked her. Can't think what would have done it though... Thestrals will sometimes go for birds, but Hagrid's got the Hogwarts thestrals well trained not to touch owls."

Harry hardly cared. He just wanted to know that Hedwig would be okay. McGonagall, however, glanced sharply at him. "Do you know how far this owl's traveled, Potter?"

"Er, from London, I think."

He met McGonagall's eyes and knew that she understood that London meant "number twelve, Grimmauld Place.” His Transfiguration professor's brow furrowed.

Grubbly-Plank agreed to look after Hedwig and said that she'd be fine in a few days. The bell rang in the distance. Harry stammered out his thanks and would have let the woman wander off with his letter if Professor McGonagall didn't have the presence of mind to ask for it.

The Care of Magical Creatures professor walked off with Hedwig in hand, who gave Harry a soulful look. He couldn't help but feel guilty for letting her go just like that. He turned to leave, but McGonagall called him back.

"Potter!"

"Yes, Professor?"

She glanced up and down the corridor where students were beginning to wander.

"Bear in mind," she cautioned quickly and quietly, "that channels of communication in and out of Hogwarts may be being watched, won't you?"

"I—" Harry started, but the flood of students came upon them both.

McGonagall squeezed his shoulder with a firm hand and gave him a small smile. She gave him one last glance before sweeping back into the staffroom. The crowd of students pushed at his body until he was carried into the courtyard, where he found his friends waiting. He hurried to them and opened the tightly curled scroll.

_Today, same time, same place. Good news._

It was Sirius' handwriting, though more sloppy than Harry'd seen it before. It was like Sirius had written it very quickly.

"Is Hedwig okay?" Hermione asked anxiously, the moment he was in earshot.

"Where'd you take her?" asked Ron.

"To Grubbly-Plank," Harry said. "And I met McGonagall. ... Listen..."

He told them what McGonagall had said, but neither of his friends looked surprised. Of course, he should have known that Hermione had come to the same conclusion.

"Who's the letter from, anyway?" Ron asked, taking the note from Harry.

"Snuffles," said Harry quietly.

"'Same time, same place'? Does he mean the fire in the common room?"

"Obviously," Hermione said, reading it over Ron's shoulder. She looked just as uneasy. "I just hope no one else has read this..."

"It was still sealed and everything," Harry argued, trying to convince himself as much as her. "And nobody would understand what it meant if they didn't know where we'd spoken to him before, would they?"

Hermione straightened her bag anxiously. "I don't know," she said. "It wouldn't be exactly difficult to reseal the scroll by magic. And if anyone's watching the Floo Network... but I don't see how we can warn him not to come without _that_ being intercepted too!"

They started walking to Potions, trudging down the stairs.

Then Hermione spoke up. "What do you think 'Good news' means?"

"Dunno," Harry said, shrugging.

"Maybe Snape's dead?" Ron offered gleefully.

Harry snorted. "Like we'd have that sort of luck."

Ron rolled his eyes. "Yeah, he'd probably still make us turn in the homework from beyond the grave."

Harry and Ron burst out in sniggers and Hermione shook her head indulgently. Their attitude was a little more cheery when Draco Malfoy's smarmy tone carried to them from the door of the Potions classroom, where he was waving a piece of parchment.

 _Great_ , Harry thought. _Time for a session of arrogant_ _git_ _._

 

* * *

 

That evening, Harry had a hard time focusing on his homework, what with all the chaos in the common room. Fred and George were showing off their latest invention, a pill that caused projectile vomiting, and the other students were lining up to watch the raucous show and buy their own sample. Hermione’s disapproving sniffs only added to the distraction. Not to mention, Sirius’s impending fire call.

Harry was desperately trying to finish the extra-long Potions essay Snape had assigned in retaliation to Umbridge’s inspection. It was past midnight and only a foot into the essay, when he finally gave up and put away his books.

Ron, who’d been dozing in his armchair, woke with a grunt. “Sirius!”

“Hi!” Sirius said, grinning.

“Hi,” chorused Harry, Ron and Hermione. They all knelt around the fireplace, hopefully hiding the fugitive from view.

“How’re things?”

“Not that good,” Harry said glumly. “The Ministry’s forced through another decree, which means we’re not allowed to have Quidditch teams--“

“--or secret Defense Against the Dark Arts groups?” finished Sirius.

The teenagers froze for a moment.

“How did you know about that?” Harry demanded.

“You want to choose your meeting places more carefully,” said Sirius, his grin widening. “The Hog’s Head, I ask you…”

He explained, much to Hermione’s indignation, that their poor choice of location was probably the reason why Umbridge had found out about the defense group so quickly. And he inadvertently revealed that Harry was still being followed. The young man quickly filed that away for future reference.

Mrs. Weasley’s warning to them about the defense group fell on deaf ears, especially when Sirius gave them his full support. Harry felt a warmth in his chest at Sirius’ approval.

“So,” said Sirius, “how are you organizing this group? Where are you meeting?”

The Animagus proposed the Shrieking Shack, but Hermione pointed out that it wouldn’t be easily accessible for their large group of students.

“Fair point,” said Sirius, looking slightly crestfallen. “Well, I’m sure you’ll come up with somewhere… There used to be a pretty roomy secret passageway behind that big mirror on the fourth floor, you might have enough space to practice jinxes in there--“

“Fred and George told me it’s blocked,” Harry said, shaking his head. “Caved in or something.”

“Oh…” said Sirius, frowning. “Well, I’ll have a think and get back to you. Anyway, there was something I wanted to--“

He broke off, looking alarmed. Sirius glanced sideways, almost looking at the brick wall of the fireplace before he disappeared.

“Sirius!” Harry exclaimed. He looked to his friends. “Why did he--?”

Hermione gasped and jumped back from the fire.

Coming out of the space where Sirius’s head used to be was a grasping, stubby, short-fingered hand covered in ugly old-fashioned rings. It was snatching at the flames, as if trying to grab at Sirius’s hair.

The three teenagers ran for it, going straight to their bedrooms. As Harry was getting ready for bed, he realized that Sirius hadn’t had a chance to tell them the good news.

 

* * *

 

“Umbridge has been reading your mail, Harry. There’s no other explanation.”

“You think Umbridge attacked Hedwig?” Harry said, outraged.”

“I’m almost certain of it,” said Hermione, grimly. “Watch your frog, it’s escaping.”

Harry summoned his bullfrog, who was making a bid for freedom, to his hand.

Charms was probably the best place to hold a private conversation because there was typically too much chaos for anyone to bother listening in. Today they were working on Silencing Charms, so the room was full of croaking bullfrogs, cawing ravens and shouting students. The heavy rain pounding on the windows added to the din and their conversation went unnoticed.

“I’ve been suspecting this ever since Filch accused you of ordering Dungbombs, because it seemed such a stupid lie,” Hermione whispered. “I mean, once your letter had been read, it would have been quite clear you _weren_ _’_ _t_ ordering them, so you wouldn’t have been in trouble at all -- it’s just a bit of a feeble joke, isn’t it? But then I thought, what if somebody just wanted an excuse to read your mail? Well then, it would be a perfect way for Umbridge to manage it -- tip off Filch, let him do the dirty work and confiscate the letter, then either find a way of stealing it from him, or else demand to see it -- I don’t think Filch would object, when’s he ever stuck up for a student’s rights? Harry, you’re squashing your frog.”

Harry looked down, where he was squeezing his bullfrog so hard that its eyes were popping. He quickly released it onto his desk.

“It was a very, very close call last night,” continued Hermione. “I just wonder if Umbridge knows how close it was. _Silencio!_ ”

Her bullfrog was immediately silenced and the creature glared at her balefully.

“If she’d caught Snuffles…”

Harry swallowed. “He’d probably be back in Azkaban this morning,” he finished for her. He waved his wand without concentrating and his bullfrog began to swell alarmingly. It let out a shrill, high-pitched whistle.

“ _Silencio_!” Hermione said quickly, deflating Harry’s bullfrog silently. “Well, he mustn’t do it again, that’s all. I just don’t know how we’re going to let him know. We can’t send him an owl.”

“I don’t reckon he’ll risk it again,” Ron pointed out. “He’s not stupid, he knows she nearly got him. _Silencio_!”

Ron’s crow cawed derisively.

“What d’you think he was going to tell us?” Harry said. “The ‘good news’, I mean.”

Ron shrugged. “Dunno. Maybe it wasn’t that important,” he said, prodding at his crow with his wand.

“I don’t know,” Hermione said. “Sirius may be impulsive, but he doesn’t exaggerate. And Dumbledore wasn’t at breakfast this morning. Maybe something’s happened.”

“What, like Voldemort keeled over?” Ron snorted.

Hermione rolled her eyes. “No, _Ronald_ ,” she said scathingly. “And you should pay more attention to your schoolwork. It’s trying to eat your wand.”

Harry ignored Ron’s indignant squawk and mulled over his friend’s wry comment as the redhead shouted in the background. Could Voldemort really have died, just like that? If only he were that lucky. But if it wasn’t Voldemort, what else could have happened?

Two days later, they had their answer.

Thursday morning was greeted with a flurry of newspapers as the _Daily Prophet_ delivered a special edition to the residents of Hogwarts. Hermione opened hers, gasped and the paper plopped straight into her morning porridge. Harry craned over her shoulder to look and his jaw dropped.

 _“_ _Peter Pettigrew Found Alive!_ _”_ Harry read aloud.

“What?!” Ron exclaimed, spitting out his mouthful of eggs.

Hermione picked up the newspaper, eyes flowing over it intently. “Yes, that’s what it says,” she said. “Listen. ‘ _Peter Pettigrew (35), a rat Animagus, was found in Diagon Alley by a squad of Aurors on Sunday. He reportedly transformed in front of them and fled when the Aurors asked for his registration paperwork. Pettigrew was promptly arrested and charged on Monday with becoming an illegal Animagus._

_‘_ _Pettigrew was declared dead on November 1 st, 1981, when Hit Wizards at the scene determined that he had been murdered at the hand of Sirius Black, the only known criminal to escape Azkaban. Black reportedly escaped in the summer of 1993 and has not yet been apprehended by the authorities. _

_'Reportedly, all that remained of Pettigrew was a single finger. His reappearance has now raised an inquiry into Black_ _’_ _s case, as Pettigrew and all his fingers have been accounted for. An informant at the Ministry also suggested that there are,_ _“_ _some other details about Pettigrew and Black_ _’_ _s case that are not adding up_ _”_ _._

_‘_ _Pettigrew will officially be declared alive in a trial tomorrow, observed by the entire Wizengamot and Minister Fudge. The trial will also serve to shed some light on the events of November 1 st, 1981._’

“There’s not much else,” Hermione concluded. “They talk a bit more about Sirius’s disappearance and speculate about Pettigrew’s reason for staying dead for over ten years.”

“Well, that’s it, isn’t it?” Ron said, slowly. “They’ll find out that Wormtail really killed all those people and that he’s working for Voldemort. Then they’ll finally believe Harry and Dumbledore!”

Harry shook his head. “I don’t know if it’ll be that simple,” he said doubtfully.

“Harry’s right, Ron,” said Hermione. “Pettigrew will probably tell them that he was afraid of Sirius or something, and that’s why he stayed a rat for all that time. He was afraid of reprisals. Unless they use Veritaserum, I doubt that they’ll find out the truth. Remember, the Minister didn’t believe Voldemort had come back, even when Snape showed him the Mark! It’s going to take more than the reappearance of a dead man for them to believe Harry.”

“At least they got him,” Harry said, fervently. “Pettigrew’s in custody, which is a step in the right direction. Let’s just hope that Dumbledore’s helping Sirius’s case.” He glanced up to the head table, where the headmaster’s seat was empty. “Wherever he is.”


	12. Sirius Affairs and Meetings

There was little word on Sirius' case over the weekend, despite the gossip that lit Hogwarts' corridors. No owls came in from London, so all they saw were the increasingly dark clouds reflected in the ceiling above the Great Hall. They’d sent Pig off with a letter, but no word came. While Ron was blaming Pig’s ineptness, Hermione reasoned that the Order was probably concerned about people intercepting owls. Neither argument soothed Harry’s anxiety.

All weekend, Harry kept an eye out for McGonagall or Dumbledore, but both of them disappeared from the castle after the news broke on Friday until breakfast Monday morning. He was mashing his eggs with his fork when the two swept in, their heads together in conversation.

“Finally!” he muttered, a leg already halfway out from under Gryffindor’s table.

Before he could get their attention, however, Hermione grabbed his elbow and swept him off to class.

"Wha—Hermione!" Harry protested, craning his neck. "I need to talk to—"

"Yes and if you do it here, then Umbridge will get suspicious," she interrupted primly. "You can ask Professor McGonagall after class."

"But that's not until tomorrow!"

"Then go to her office after classes today," Hermione said sharply. "Either way, if we don't leave now, we'll be late for History of Magic."

Harry huffed. He glanced back but both teachers were already leaving the Head Table. Grumbling under his breath, he followed his friends, ignoring the smugness radiating off Hermione.

Ron bumped his shoulder and glanced about for any eavesdroppers. "Worried about Sirius?" he asked, barely moving his lips.

“And the trial,” Harry nodded. "I thought he'd send a letter by now."

"He's probably just worried about it being intercepted," his friend pointed out.

"Maybe." Harry ducked his head.

Ron eyed his friend carefully. "Why don't I owl dad?" he offered. "You know, when Pig gets back. Maybe he'll know something."

"That'd be great Ron," said Harry, giving him a tentative grin. "Thanks."

"Oi!" Hermione gestured at the two of them from the classroom doorway. "Come on, class is about to start!" She darted inside without a second glance.

Harry and Ron shared a look and burst out laughing.

"Don't know why she has to sound so excited," Ron said, rolling his eyes. "She'll be asleep in no time, just like the rest of us."

"Yeah," agreed Harry, "but let's get inside before we get detentions. I do not need another one." He headed for the door.

Ron snorted as he followed. "Angelina would go spare if you got one and missed practice tonight."

Harry shook his head. "Yeah and then I'd be the Boy-Who-Died."

He shared a smirk with Ron before Hermione glared and shushed them. It took all they had to hold back their laughter when she turned to Binns with rapt attention. She ignored them and soon enough they were doodling and playing hangman just to stay awake.

The teachers and Hermione managed to distract them all day so he didn’t have a chance to find McGonagall or Dumbledore. By that evening, Harry was going spare. As they trudged down to the Quidditch pitch, the heavy sky let loose a torrential rain.

“Well, this is brilliant,” Fred commented when they joined the team under the bleachers.

George grinned. “Yes, quite the lovely weather, chap. Don’t you agree Angelina?”

“Oh, shut up you two,” Angelina snapped, her hair already plastered to her head. “Look, now that everyone’s here, let’s get up in the air. We’ve already lost weeks of practice with our Seeker and I’m not about to stop practice for a little rain.”

As their captain’s impassioned speech went on, Harry had the strangest feeling that Angelina had been possessed by Oliver Wood. They were all shivering and soaked when they mounted their brooms and he felt the wind buffet him back and forth, as he rose into the sky.

It took an incredible amount of will to stay on his broom, as the wind tried valiantly to unseat him. Chemo had lost him nearly two stone of needed weight and the rain made it tough for him to grip his broom. The cold cut through his robes and went straight to his bones. Harry shivered and clutched his broom tighter. The only way he’d catch the snitch in this was if it flew straight into his hand.

Angelina ended the practice after a hopeless hour and the entire team slogged their way back up the slope to the castle. No one could muster up the energy to speak as they trudged through the halls up to the dormitory, keeping a wary eye out for Filch.

Harry’s hands felt like ice and he could barely feel his limbs through the cold. Ron’s freckles stood out on his pale cheeks and he looked as if an entire bucket of water had been emptied over his head. When they made their way through the portrait hole, Hermione took one glance at them and ushered them upstairs for a hot shower.

It took what felt like ten minutes of soaking before tingling started in his fingers and toes and Harry’s teeth stopped chattering. As he was getting out of the shower, a powerful burning started in his head.

“Ouch!” he cried, pressing a towel to his face.

“Harry?” Ron asked.

“Scar,” he mumbled, stumbling to his bed. Harry sat down gingerly and heard rustling as Ron rounded his bed to stand next to him.

“He—he can’t hear us, right?”

Harry shook his head, pulling away from the towel. “No, he’s miles away.”

“Is this like what happened last time? You know, with Umbridge?”

He shook his head. “No, this was different,” he said, biting his lip. “The last time--it was almost as if--he was happy. This wasn’t like that.” He looked up at Ron. “He’s angry.”

Ron’s face was stark white. “Mate, what’s going on?” he asked, joining Harry on the bed. “You’re--you’re reading You-Know-Who’s mind.”

The dark haired teen grimaced. “It’s more like feeling his emotions,” he corrected, clenching his fists, “but, yeah. It’s been happening a lot.”

“You’ve got to tell Dumbledore,” Ron said firmly. “Maybe he’ll know why it’s happening.”

Harry nodded. “I’m going to, just as soon as I can.” He scrubbed at his face.

The two sat in silence for a moment, thinking. Ron broke it suddenly, standing in one fluid motion.

“I’m going to go downstairs and talk to Hermione.” He looked questioningly at Harry.

“Think I’ll go to bed,” he said quietly, running a hand through his hair. “I’m tired.”

Ron nodded and threw him a weak smile. “Good night,” he said, walking out of the dormitory.

“Night,” Harry murmured, falling back into his thoughts.

 

* * *

 

Tuesday morning dawned with still no word from Sirius. Harry thrummed with energy through Charms, causing him to overpower his Growth Charm.

"A little less power, Mr. Potter," Professor Flitwick tutted as he passed by their desk, that was buckling under his stone’s massive size. The Charms professor waved his wand to shrink it. "Perhaps more practice is in order?"

Harry sighed and ignored Hermione's knowing look. With a wave of her wand, she smoothly enlarged her rock to twice its original size.

"Well done Miss Granger!" the diminutive professor cheered. "Take five points for Gryffindor."

As he moved on, Harry groaned and tried again. This time, his rock didn't change at all.

"You're worried about Sirius, aren't you?" Hermione asked, shrinking her stone.

"Yeah," Harry said.

"He'll be fine," Ron reassured, clapping him on the back. "I'm sure it's just a matter of time before he sends a letter. With Pettigrew in jail, I imagine that lot's busy trying to get everything sorted."

Harry nodded. "Which is why I need to talk to McGonagall," he said. "If we can't risk owl post, maybe she can give him a letter for me."

Hermione smiled. "That sounds like a good plan. Are you going to give it to her after class?"

"Yeah," he said, patting his bag. "I wrote it this morning."

Ron broke out in a fit of laughter. Harry and Hermione exchanged a bewildered look.

"What's so funny, mate?" Harry asked.

Between sniggers, he answered. "Harry's going to...have McGonagall deliver...a letter!"

"Yes...?" Hermione prompted.

Ron's chuckles subsided and it was his turn to raise an eyebrow. "Because, you know, her Animagus form is a cat," he said, his lips twitching.

Harry immediately imagined McGonagall's cat form scowling crossly at him with his letter round her neck and had to stuff his fist into his mouth to suppress the laughter. As the two boys bent over their desks in mirth, Hermione rolled her eyes fondly at the two of them.

Later, after Transfiguration, it appeared that McGonagall had the same idea as Ron.

“Please Professor?” Harry asked, holding out the parchment. The classroom had already emptied of the other students, and Hermione and Ron were waiting at the door for him.

Her lips pressed together. “Very well,” she agreed, taking the letter and tucking it into her pocket. “Just this once, Potter. Understood? I am not a post owl.”

“Yes, Professor, I understand.” He grinned. “Thanks.”

A small smile stole over the stern professor’s features. “You’re welcome. Now, off to lunch with you. I believe the elves have made an excellent beef stew.”

He nodded. The trio quickly rejoined their classmates and the rest of the school as they noisily made their way to the Great Hall.

A weight had been lifted off Harry’s chest. He reveled in that through lunch and in the unending downpour as the trio trudged the swamp-like grounds to Care of Magical Creatures. This, however, subsided as Grubby-Plank had them working with a lake-dwelling creature, which provided no shelter from the rain.

Herbology followed, so they were jostled inside a greenhouse for a sweaty hour of repotting plants, before being shuffled back outside in the icy rain.

All of them were soaked through and frozen to the bone by the end of the day. Even Hermione’s usually bushy hair was plastered on her head as they ran to the castle for hot showers and to finish the mountains of homework due the next day.

 

* * *

 

He was in the corridor. Dim lights flickered and locked doors surrounded him. He walked down to the end, his steps echoing in the silence and his hand stretched out for the last door’s handle. He just needed to get to it…

Something spongy was on his face. Harry snapped awake, looking around blurrily. “Whozat?”

“Harry Potter, sir!”

“Dobby?” he cleared his throat and grabbed his glasses from the bedside table.

“Dobby has your owl, sir!”

Harry blinked blearily. The house elf was standing on his bed, his pointed ears sticking out from under a towering pile of lopsided knit hats. Hedwig was perched on Dobby’s head, hooting softly at him.

“Dobby volunteered to return Harry Potter’s owl!” he squeaked, a look of adoration on his face. “Professor Grubbly-Plank says she is all well now, sir!” He gave a deep bow, knocking Hedwig off. She hooted indignantly and flapped her way to a bedpost.

“Thanks Dobby!” Harry croaked, eyeing his owl. He desperately tried to shake off the afterimages of corridors and locked doors that lay behind his eyes. Blinking, he eyed Dobby, who was also covered in scarves and layers of socks. “Er… have you been taking all the clothes Hermione’s been leaving out?”

“Oh, no, sir,” Dobby said happily, “Dobby has been taking some for Winky too, sir.”

“Yeah, how is Winky?”

As Dobby explained that Winky’s drinking problem hadn’t gotten any better, Harry realized how bad he felt. His head was aching, his whole body felt heavy and his throat was on fire. As he sat up, his blanket slipped down and a wave cool air hit his torso. He shivered.

Ron’s and Neville’s snores could be heard from behind the bed hangings, so it was still the middle of the night. Harry tuned in as Dobby finished explaining how he was cleaning the entire Gryffindor common room because none of the other house elves wanted to find Hermione’s knitted clothes.

“Dobby wishes he could help Harry Potter, for Harry Potter set Dobby free and Dobby is much, much happier now…”

Harry smiled. “You can’t help me, Dobby, but thanks for the offer." He swallowed roughly and coughed.

He shifted and a sliver of moonlight came through his bed hangings and hit his hand, lighting up the silver scar—the result of his detention with Umbridge.

“Wait a moment,” Harry said, looking up. “There is something you can do for me, Dobby.”

 

* * *

 

 

The next morning, Harry cornered Ron and Hermione before breakfast and told them about Dobby's idea.

"The Room of Requirement?" Ron repeated.

Harry nodded. "It's perfect. Dobby told me where to find it and everything." He muffled a cough into his sleeve and cleared his throat.

Ron and Hermione exchanged a look. "That's brilliant Harry," she said, biting her lip. When the black haired teen coughed again, she added, "Er, Harry?"

"Hmm?" He looked up at his friends.

"Are you feeling alright?" At his look, she hastily continued. "It's just that you've been coughing a lot this morning and you don't look all that well—"

"I'm fine, Hermione," Harry said pleadingly. "It's nothing."

Hermione bit her lip and shifted nervously. A growl penetrated the awkward silence and Harry and Hermione turned to a blushing Ron.

"What?" he cried defensively. "I'm hungry! Let's go down to breakfast before it's all gone."

His friends rolled their eyes but followed the redhead out the portrait hole.

"Ron, you do know how unlikely it is that the food will run out, don't you?" Hermione said rhetorically when he prodded her to move faster.

Ron's flush became more prominent as he muttered mutinously under his breath. Harry, for his part, stuffed fist into his mouth to smother his chuckles. When the laughs turned into coughs, he did his best to keep them quiet.

Harry couldn't blame his friends for being worried. This was the third time in little over a month that he'd been ill since he'd seen them. True, the chemotherapy had caused most of it, but he knew that it was more than that.

The other teens on the oncology ward had warned him how the treatments would affect his cell count. Outside of the obvious symptoms, the drugs would lower his resistance to infections, which meant that he would and could catch anything that came upon him. A Muggle in his position would never have been able to return to school so soon.

Harry wasn't a Muggle, but he was also stubborn. As the Gryffindors ventured out into the pouring rain, Hermione frowned and muttered furiously under her breath. Harry did his best to ignore her fussing and Ron's concerned eyes as he stifled increasingly harsh coughs into his sleeve. Herbology that morning was a wash, as no one could hear Sprout over the harsh rain pounding on the roof.

When they returned to the Entrance Hall after class, Hermione insisted on casting three warming charms on Harry. His hair faintly smoking, the three of them went to lunch, where Harry picked at his food.

"You should eat something," Hermione prodded, pushing a tureen of boiled potatoes to his elbow.

Harry, his head propped in his hand, shook his head and wiped his runny nose with a napkin. "Not hungry," he murmured.

Both his friends exchanged a frown over his head. As Harry muffled a series of back-shaking coughs into his hand, Ron's expression set and he got up, striding out of the hall. Hermione watched him leave with wide eyes. No one in recent memory had ever seen Ron willingly leave the table before he finished his meal.

"Where'd—” Harry started before getting cut off by coughs yet again. Hermione pursed her lips and poured a goblet of water for her friend, pressing it into his hand.

The black haired teen took small, careful sips until he could drink more steadily. As he set the goblet down, he glanced at his fuming bushy haired friend.

"Harry—"

"No," he croaked quietly. "I don't want to go to the Hospital Wing. I'm fine."

"Bollocks," Hermione countered primly. "Don't give me that look, Harry. You are not fine and you need to see the nurse."

Harry opened his mouth to argue when his plate vanished and in its place appeared a bowl of soup. It was steaming and the hearty chunks of chicken and noodles actually looked appetizing.

"Huh?"

His friend smiled. "See? Now, you are going to eat your lunch and then Ron and I will take you up to Madam Pomfrey." When Harry attempted to argue again, she pulled out her wand and laid it on the table. "Willingly or unwillingly," she said primly, raising an eyebrow. "Your choice."

Harry shut his mouth and picked up his spoon, not wanting to test the angry witch. When Ron returned to the hall and his vacant seat, Harry had already finished a third of the bowl. Hermione shot the redhead a brilliant smile and the three resumed their lunch.

Later, as his two friends grabbed his arms and frog-marched him to the Hospital Wing, Harry felt his heart swell with emotion at their concern. That deflated sharply upon seeing Madam Pomfrey.

"Well, what is it this time?" the matron asked, drawing her wand. "Ashwinder bite? A dark curse? Or perhaps a chimera?"

Harry shook his head. He covered his mouth hastily as a wave of coughs erupted from his chest.

Madam Pomfrey clucked sympathetically. "Just a cold, then, I wager?" At Hermione and Ron's nods, she patted a bed. "Up you get, Potter."

Reluctantly, Harry perched on the edge under the watchful eyes of his friends. They apparently had no qualms at cursing him if he tried to make a run for it.

The school nurse waved her wand, frowned and then tapped him on the forehead. At Harry's puzzled look, she answered, "Temperature charm. You're running a fever, Potter." Madam Pomfrey then fixed him with a stern look. "When'd you start feeling ill?"

Harry looked at his shoes. "Last night."

"You should have come to see me straight away," she scolded, shaking her head. "Luckily for you, we caught this just in time." Madam Pomfrey summoned three potions from her cupboards. "You were well on your way to pneumonia. Now, drink," she said, pressing a murky green potion into Harry's hand.

Grimacing, he obediently swallowed each potion she gave him, despite each tasting worse than the last. Miraculously, he felt the tickles in his throat and the imperceptible tightness in his chest disappear along with his other symptoms.

"Enough of those faces, Potter," Madam Pomfrey scolded, an amused grin playing on her lips. "Now, I want you to stay out of the rain for the rest of the day—do close your mouth, Mr. Potter, you are not a fish—or you'll end up in here for the rest of the week. Get a good night's rest and stop by in the morning. I'll want to check on those lungs before breakfast."

"But Madam Pomfrey," Hermione interjected insistently, "we have Care of Magical Creatures this afternoon!"

"And Quidditch practice tonight!" Ron added, equally fervent.

"All classes have been moved into the castle until the storm passes, Miss Granger," Madam Pomfrey said. "Notices have been placed in the common rooms." She turned to Ron. "And I would think that your captain would prefer to have her Seeker healthy enough to play in the next game, rather than risk it over one practice." At Ron's cowed expression, she nodded. "Now off with the three of you. Mr. Potter, I'll see you tomorrow morning."

The three teens thanked her and beat a hasty retreat out of the Hospital Wing. They walked in silence for a moment, before Hermione sniffed and gave Harry a pointed look.

He rolled his eyes and stifled a grin. "Alright, fine," Harry said. "You were right, Hermione. Thanks."

Her smile lit the corridor and their voices echoed as they made their way to the common room.

 

* * *

 

The DA meeting that evening was a rousing success and Harry was still grinning proudly when he woke up on Friday morning, two days later. During breakfast, Hermione and Ron whispered excitedly about setting up another meeting soon, while Harry tucked into his eggs. At least until an owl swooped down to drop that morning’s Daily Prophet in his juice.

“What is it, Harry?” Hermione asked as he unrolled the paper. Other students around the hall were talking loudly over their copies as well.

Harry quickly read the headline, his breath catching.

SIRIUS BLACK INNOCENT, PETTIGREW CONFESSES TO CRIMES

Sirius was innocent. Free. Not hunted anymore. Peter Pettigrew would go to prison for the rest of his life for everything he’d done to Harry’s family and the Muggles he’d killed in that street. Sirius was innocent.

“Harry,” Ron said, reading over his shoulder. He grinned and clapped the black haired teen on the back. “Brilliant news, mate.”

A smile slowly crept onto Harry’s face and he turned to his friends. “Yeah,” he said, heart feeling lighter than it had been in some time. “Yeah it is.”

“May I?” Hermione gently asked for the newspaper. Harry passed it to her and watched as her eyes quickly ran over the words. She smiled brightly as she finished. “Full pardon,” she declared, looking at the boys. “They’ve even waived the penalty for being an illegal Animagus, on account of him being unlawfully prisoned for 12 years. Yesterday in a closed trial, Pettigrew was charged and sent to Azkaban for life.” She handed him the paper. “Congratulations Harry!”

Harry grinned and held up the newspaper, where Sirius’s exultant face was gleaming from the moving picture. He had his arm thrown around Lupin’s shoulder and their images were dancing the can-can.

“Wish I could have been there,” he said wistfully, pushing his plate aside to lay down the paper and gaze at the photo.

Ron clapped his large hand on Harry’s shoulder. “I’m sure he wanted you to be there, mate,” he said.

“They probably felt that you being there would hurt his trial more than help,” Hermione added regretfully. At both the boys’ looks, she shrugged. “It’s not like the Minister or the Wizengamot likes you very much right now. It’d be hard enough to let Sirius off after everything they’ve said about him in the press over the last two years, let alone if you were there rooting for him.”

Harry bit his lip, acknowledging that she had a point. He only got off in his trial because Dumbledore brought in all that proof. Fudge had been more than willing to crucify him on hearsay.

“And besides,” Hermione said, raising her chin, “the trial took the whole week and we had classes. Imagine how much you would have missed!”

Ron and Harry exchanged a look before breaking out into guffaws, much to Hermione’s consternation.

“Don’t ever change, Hermione,” Harry said between chuckles. At Hermione’s glare, the boys ducked their heads into their breakfasts.

A moment later, Ron crowed, drawing their attention to the head table. “Look at Umbridge’s face!”

Sure enough, the Defense professor was a bright red, her fingers practically shredding her copy of the Daily Prophet. Harry brightened as spittle flew from her lips and the bow on her head slipped sideways.

“Snape looks a bit upset too,” Harry said mildly, enjoying the sour curl of Snape’s lips. He looked like he’d been forced to swallow a lemon whole.

Ron glanced over and chortled. “I wish I had a camera!” he said. “Sirius would love to see his face.”

Harry agreed and fixed the image in his mind to describe to Sirius later.

“Potter,” a stern voice called their attention. The three teens looked up to see Professor McGonagall standing just behind Hermione. “I trust the recent news will not distract you from your lessons?” The sparkle in her eye diffused the sting of her words.

“No, Professor,” Harry said, a cheeky grin on his lips.

McGonagall turned to Hermione. “Miss Granger,” she said, “I believe you misplaced this essay in my class the other day.” She held out a roll of parchment to the girl. “Do keep a keen eye on your belongings.” Her eye turned back to Harry for a beat. “I will not deliver them again.”

“Of course, Professor,” Hermione said confusedly, accepting the scroll. “Thank you.”

The older woman nodded and swept out of the Great Hall.

“Is it your Potions essay?” Ron asked, his mouth full of toast and eggs.

Hermione shook her head. “I can’t imagine what I dropped,” she said quietly, unrolling the scroll. “I’m not missing any--“ She paused, eyes wide.

“What is it?” Harry asked, leaning forward.

“Not here,” she whispered, as she tucked it deep in her bag. “Come on, we’ll be late to History,” she added loudly.

Harry helped pull a reluctant Ron to his feet and the three of them left the Great Hall. Hermione led the way up the stairs, and once the crowd thinned, pulled them down an empty corridor.

“Hermione, History’s the other way,” Ron pointed out.

“I know,” she whispered, pulling them into an abandoned classroom. She locked the door behind them and rummaged through her bag. “It’s about the essay Professor McGonagall gave me.”

Ron gave her a piercing look. “What about it?”

“It wasn’t an essay,” she said, directing her gaze at Harry. “It’s a letter from Sirius.”

His eyes widened, taking the scroll from her hand. Harry’s hand shook slightly as he unrolled the parchment. Sure enough, Sirius’ handwriting shone starkly on the page.

“Why didn’t she just give it to me?” he wondered aloud, quickly glancing at the words.

Hermione bit her lip. “Umbridge,” she said uncertainly. “Sirius may be free but Umbridge is still working for the Ministry. If they were to find out that you were in contact with Sirius before he was exonerated, Umbridge could try and charge you with aiding and abetting an alleged criminal.” At their looks, she shrugged. “It’s a theory, anyway. Look, the point is, she can’t carry your letters anymore and we can’t trust the owl post, so we’ll just have to make do until Sirius can get in touch.”

Harry sighed and clutched the letter. “At least I have this,” he said, glancing at his friend. “Thanks Hermione.”

“Not at all,” she said, smiling back. The three of them stood in companionable silence for a moment. “Now, come on,” Hermione added, jostling her book bag on her shoulder, “we’ll be late to History if we don’t hurry.”


	13. The Trial

Grimmauld Place was busier than a fireplace in the lobby of the Ministry in the days that followed Pettigrew’s capture. Sirius came to attention every time someone stepped through the door and set his mother off, but no word came until Wednesday evening’s Order meeting.

“We were able to charge him on Monday with being an illegal Animagus, but then a solicitor turned up for him,” Kingsley reported.

“Malfoy’s?” Arthur Weasley asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Court appointed, actually,” the larger man said with a weary sigh. “I doubt Malfoy wants to get involved in this mess. He managed to delay the charges and proceedings, saying that since Pettigrew is dead, he can’t be charged with anything. Rufus filed a petition to declare Pettigrew alive, so we can officially charge him.”

The hoarse voice of Remus Lupin interjected. “Why didn’t they release him?” Several incredulous faces snapped to his. “Not that I want him free, obviously!” He rolled his eyes. “It’s just, that’d be the first thing his solicitor would try, right?”

Kingsley nodded. “He did, but as Pettigrew was caught in an incredibly illegal act by several respected Aurors, Proudfoot included, there was no squirming his way out of it. We were able to hold him on ‘suspicious activity’ until the petition went through.”

“And when is the trial, Kingsley?” Dumbledore asked, peering at the Auror over his glasses.

“Friday,” he said. “A judge will examine our evidence and proof that he is in fact Peter Pettigrew before he’ll be legally alive. Hopefully, they’ll start asking questions about November 1st and his alleged murder.”

“Will that be enough?” Sirius asked, his haunted eyes piercing Kingsley’s. “Will that be enough to prove my innocence?”

Kingsley shook his head. “Not quite,” he said softly. “You weren’t just accused of killing Pettigrew, but also the Muggles. We’ll need to prove that Peter was the only one who fired a spell that day and that it was his spell that killed the Muggles.”

Sirius gritted his teeth and was about to snarl something at the Auror when Remus placed a hand over his fists. “Be patient, Sirius,” he murmured under his breath. “It’s likely to come out though, right?” he said loudly, directing his attention at Kingsley.

The dark man nodded. “Yes,” he said. “All the witness statements were very clear that only one spell was cast and we have Pettigrew’s wand in custody. That should be enough to prove that Pettigrew was the guilty party.” He looked sympathetically at Sirius. “Just give it time. We have to go through the process, the right way.”

 

* * *

 

“Attention, attention please!” Cornelius Fudge called, silencing the multitude of voices echoing about the chamber. “The accused is present and we are ready to begin.”

Remus fidgeted in his seat, shifting off a splinter that was trying to find its way into his right buttock. His mouth was dry and clammy hands clutched at his best set of robes. This was it. The moment he’d been waiting for, for the last two years.

Peter Pettigrew, the sniveling coward, was shivering in his chair. As soon as he sat, the chains had sprung to life and wrapped themselves around him--a stipulation of the prosecution. Wormtail had already tried to flee once and had been labeled a flight risk. Remus felt sharp jab of perverse pleasure when the chains tightened imperceptibly against the rat’s struggles. He deserved every bit of this.

“Scribe, are you ready to proceed?” Fudge asked, looking down the row to where a dumpy looking wizard sat, quill in hand.

“Yes Minister,” the man grouched, fresh ink dripping onto the parchment.

“Members of the Wizengamot,” the blustering man started, “we are brought together today to judge if the accused sitting before us is in fact Peter Pettigrew, a man who has been legally deceased since November 1st, 1981.”

Muttering sprung up amongst the witches and wizards in the stands.

“To verify this man’s identity, we now call Mr. Pettigrew’s mother, Enid Pettigrew, before us.”

Remus watched as a short witch in a simple black robe came through the door of Courtroom 12. She was older, her wispy gray hair framing the wrinkles around her face, but it was the same woman he remembered seeing meet Peter at the train station every year.

Enid Pettigrew was a kind-hearted woman, always giving out smiles and hugs to Peter’s friends, inviting them over for tea. She’d been so proud of her son, despite the overwhelming success of his friends. He also remembered how distraught the poor woman had been after Peter’s assumed death. Whatever else, Mrs. Pettigrew did not deserve this.

The wizard was shaken out of his reminiscing when Mrs. Pettigrew’s gasp echoed through the room.

“Peter!” she cried, fat tears rolling down her cheeks. “It _is_ you, oh my dear boy!”

The witch rushed to hug her son but a nearby Auror held her back, shaking his head and whispering to her.

Remus looked to the crowd, where the whisperings had cropped up again. The Minister was pale and his voice shook slightly when he spoke, “Mrs. Pettigrew.” He paused. “Are you identifying this man as your son, Peter Pettigrew?”

The witch turned wet eyes to the Minister and gave a quick nod. “Yes,” she said firmly. “A mother never forgets the face of her child.”

“Very well,” Fudge said. “All those in favor of approving the request to declare this man as Mr. Peter Pettigrew and to overturn the death certificate dated November 1st, 1981, please raise your hands now.”

As expected, an overwhelming majority of hands went up and within seconds, Peter Pettigrew was legally living. Mrs. Pettigrew’s muffled sobs echoed throughout the room as she was escorted out. Remus saw the relief on her face and a pang shot through his chest. If things went according to plan, the woman would likely never see her son ever again.

“Minister, on behalf of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, I would like to file charges against Mr. Peter Pettigrew,” a firm-faced wizard said, levitating a thick scroll of parchment to the Minister’s bench. His robes were neat and of good quality. That and the emblem on them identified him as the leading solicitor for the DMLE.

Fudge passed the scroll to the witch sitting next to him. “What are the charges, Mr. Finch?” he asked.

“Of being an Illegal Animagus, sir,” the solicitor said calmly to the harsh whispers of the court. “Several Aurors witnessed Mr. Peter Pettigrew transform from a brown rat into a wizard at 12:33 p.m. on October 8th, 1995. When the Aurors asked for his registration paperwork, Mr. Pettigrew transformed back into a rat and attempted to flee the scene.”

The whispers grew louder and Remus couldn’t help but let his lips curl in satisfaction. As the evidence against Pettigrew mounted, the rat began to sweat heavily, panting through his mouth.

“In addition,” Mr. Finch continued, “the Improper Use of Magic office has verified that no applications or registrations were processed prior to the filing of Mr. Pettigrew’s recently dismissed death certificate. None of the currently licensed Animagi, including Professor Minerva McGonagall who was Mr. Pettigrew’s Head of House while at Hogwarts, were informed or aware of Mr. Pettigrew’s intention to attempt the Animagus transformation, as required by law for anyone intending to become Animagi. Therefore, it is clear that Mr. Pettigrew willfully disobeyed critical laws pertaining to the proper training and registration of Animagi.”

Fudge looked to the witch at his elbow and she nodded. “The evidence is accepted,” he said with a grimace, “and the charges are filed.” Pettigrew whimpered, his beady eyes shifting wildly in his skull. “Counselor, are the Aurors who witnessed Mr. Pettigrew’s transformation prepared to come forward?”

“They are, sir,” confirmed Mr. Finch.

“Then bring them in,” Fudge gestured. The door creaked open and a group of Aurors marched inside. Remus recognized Kingsley as he towered over most of the others’ heads. One man stood in front, his coiffed hair standing to perfection.

“Sirs, please state your names and occupation for the court record,” the Minister intoned.

“Reginald Proudfoot,” the first man said, his chest puffing out. “Auror with the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.” The others announced themselves as well and Remus winced as his nervous shifting was halted by the sinister prick of that splinter.

“Auror Proudfoot, did you witness the accused transform from and into a rat on October 8th, 1995?” Fudge asked.

“Yes sir, I did,” the Auror blustered. “So did my team.”

The Minister confirmed this quickly. “And did your team confirm that Mr. Pettigrew’s transformation was the result of being an Animagus and not another transfiguration spell?”

“Yes sir,” Proudfoot said. “His wand showed no evidence of human transfiguration and no one in the vicinity shot spells at him.”

Fudge nodded. “I believe we’ve heard enough. Counselor, do you have any additional evidence to present to this court regarding the charges placed before us?”

“No, sir,” Mr. Finch said.

“Then does the accused have anything to add in his defense?”

“No sir,” said a reedy young wizard. He stood slightly behind Wormtail’s chair, his quiet presence barely making an impact on the room. Remus raised an eyebrow. This was Wormtail’s court appointed solicitor? Kingsley had made him out to sound a bit more impressive than this. “But Mr. Pettigrew would like to remind the court that the years prior to his presumed death were full of suspicion and fear and he was friends of several people targeted by You-Know-Who during that time period. As his form is that of a small rodent, Mr. Pettigrew felt that it was in his best interests to keep his skill quiet, in order to protect himself from any attacks upon his person.”

Fear crept into Remus’ stomach and, for a moment, he could hardly breathe. Before he could stand up and disprove Wormtail’s lies, the DMLE solicitor countered the statement.

“I would like to remind the court,” Mr. Finch said, “that if Mr. Pettigrew knew that registration could entail revealing his form to the public, he must have been aware of the laws pertaining to Animagi. In addition, only current members of magical law enforcement may avoid registration on grounds of personal protection, of which Mr. Pettigrew has never been a member. Furthermore, the laws pertaining to Animagus training and registration were created to _protect_ Animagi from the exceedingly dangerous magic required to perform the transformation. If Mr. Pettigrew was concerned about his own safety, he should have followed the proper procedures in place for his own protection.”

Remus felt the tense feeling in his chest recede at the nods coming from the crowd and the stern glares shot at Wormtail.

“Members of the Wizengamot,” Minister Fudge announced, “on the charge of learning and performing an illegal Animagus transformation, please raise your hand if you find the accused not guilty.” None raised their hands. “Please raise your hand if you find the accused guilty.” Nearly the entire courtroom’s hands were raised.

“Peter Pettigrew, we hereby find you guilty of the charge of being an illegal Animagus. As such, you will be sentenced to no less than 10 years in Azkaban for your crime,” Fudge ruled. “If there is nothing else, councilors…”

“Actually, Minister,” Mr. Finch said, stepping forward. “As Mr. Pettigrew is officially alive, the Department of Magical Law Enforcement would like to call Mr. Sirius Black’s conviction into question.”

Remus jumped as the room exploded into noise. His heart thudded in his chest and he dearly hoped Sirius had stayed at Headquarters as ordered. Hopefully the business end of Molly’s wand had kept him inside as they’d hoped.

“Quiet! Quiet, please!” Fudge called, his voice projecting over the crowd with a hasty _Sonorous_. When the crowd calmed, the minister removed his wand from his throat and continued. “Please explain yourself, Mr. Finch.”

“Certainly, sir,” the solicitor said. “According to witness accounts of November 1st, 1981, Mr. Pettigrew cornered Sirius Black on a crowded street. After shouting at Mr. Black, a spell was reportedly thrown and Mr. Pettigrew and several Muggles were killed. All that was remained of Mr. Pettigrew was a finger. However, since Mr. Pettigrew is alive and, if you look to his hands, has all his fingers intact, could it not be surmised that the reported events of November 1st are mistaken? In addition, as Mr. Pettigrew is clearly alive when Mr. Black was sent to prison for his murder, I move to overturn Mr. Black’s conviction.”

Again, the room exploded with the sounds of protesting witches and wizards. It took Fudge several minutes to calm the crowd, while Peter sat there, struggling against the chains.

“You make some valid points, Mr. Finch,” the Minister bit out through gritted teeth. “Mr. Pettigrew, can you enlighten us as to the events of November 1st, perhaps?”

At his solicitor’s nod, Peter licked his lips, eyes flitting to the corners of the room as sweat dripped down his forehead. His thin graying hair stuck to his scalp and thin shoulders trembled through the worn shirt. “Yes-sir,” Wormtail said. “I’d just found out--what’d happened to Lily and James and H-Harry…”

Remus’s fists clenched as the rat related the same stupid story he’d told them in the Shrieking Shack all those years ago. He and Sirius had seen through the lies but with these people, people who didn’t know Peter as they did, there was a chance that they’d believe the rat’s story. He worked the soft fabric of his robes into his hands, rubbing them to keep his clammy hands dry.

“… and I t-transformed into a r-rat and hid. I-I thought he’d c-come after m-me, just like he d-did with L-Lily and J-James!” the rat whimpered.

“Mr. Pettigrew,” Mr. Finch said, looking calmly at the man, “may I ask why you decided to stay in hiding for _fourteen years_? Mr. Black was arrested that day and most of You-Know-Who’s supporters were captured within a few months.”

“W-well, I-I was a-afraid!” Peter cried, his voice gaining more confidence. “Everyone thought I was dead and if I transformed back into a human, I’d get in trouble for being an Animagus. S-so I stayed a-away. I d-didn’t want to go to A-Azkaban. B-Black, he’d k-kill m-me!”

Mr. Finch’s shoulders tightened slightly. “Mr. Pettigrew,” he said slowly, “are you telling me that you lived as a rat for fourteen years?”

“Y-yes,” Wormtail stuttered.

When the solicitor turned on his heel to face the court, Remus saw the glittering of his eyes. “I would like to enter into evidence the results of the Priori Incantatum conducted on Mr. Pettigrew’s wand upon his incarceration on October 8th by the arresting Aurors.” Mr. Finch floated another scroll to Fudge’s bench.

“I shall summarize the evidence for court,” said the solicitor. “In the process of determining if Mr. Pettigrew cast silent transfiguration spells, the arresting Aurors found evidence of several spells performed by Mr. Pettigrew’s wand, all of which would have to have been performed by a human hand. If Mr. Pettigrew stayed a rat, as he claimed, then would we see such a volume of spells come from this wand?”

“Mr. Finch,” Fudge drawled, “I do not see how this evidence is relevant to the question of Black’s innocence. Mr. Pettigrew is well within his rights to perform spells with his own wand.”

Mr. Finch cleared his throat and the curl to his lips was more than a little vicious. “Ah, but Minister, would those rights include Dark spells and Unforgiveable curses?”

The courtroom broke out in gasps and shouts. Fudge grabbed at the scroll and his eyes scanned down the list of spells recorded. “The Imperius Curse?” he read, color leaving his skin.

“Amongst others,” said Mr. Finch. “Clearly, Mr. Pettigrew is a man with a dark past and may not be the hero we believe him to be. In regards to Mr. Black’s sentence and Mr. Pettigrew’s testimony, I believe that there is enough circumstantial evidence against Mr. Pettigrew’s character to ask that he give his statement once more under Veritaserum.” The white of the Minister’s face was shading more furiously to red. “In the interests of justice, Minister Fudge.”

“Yes, of course,” Fudge bit out.

There was a flurry of movement, as the potion was acquired and administered to a straining Wormtail. The moment the truth serum hit the rat’s tongue, the man went still and a glassiness fell over his eyes. Remus leaned forward, ears straining to hear every word.

Mr. Finch cleared his throat. “Are you Peter Pettigrew?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“I need you to tell me about the events of November 1st, 1981,” the solicitor said. “What happened in the Muggle street?”

“Sirius was after me, he knew what I’d done,” Peter said tonelessly. “I shouted at him, blamed him for Lily and James. He pulled his wand out to attack me, but I already had mine behind my back. I used a blasting curse to break a hole through the street down to the sewer line and cut off my finger. Then I transformed into a rat and used the sewers to get away.”

The entire gallery was silent, all eyes riveted on Wormtail’s confession. “Did Sirius Black fire off any spells that day?” Mr. Finch asked quietly, his voice echoing up to the highest row of viewers.

“No,” Peter said. “He was too slow.”

“Did you kill the Muggles in that street?”

After a beat and a flicker of Peter’s eyes, he answered, “Yes, I suppose I did. The spell had to be strong enough to make a hole to the sewers.”

“Mr. Pettigrew, why was Mr. Black after you in the first place?” the solicitor asked curiously.

“I was the Potter’s Secret-Keeper,” Wormtail said, his eyelids fluttering. “I told You-Know-Who where to find them and he killed them. Sirius came after me because I betrayed the Potters.”

Remus sagged in his seat as a final explosion of noise rocked the courtroom. He sat there, letting the voices climb over his head and spill throughout the cavernous space. Never had he imagined that he would actually be able to sit and hear the traitor confess his crimes. He’d hoped, for Sirius and Harry’s sakes, but Remus knew that it would likely never happen.

So the werewolf sat there, mind no longer on the trial itself, as he pictured his friend’s face in mind when he told him the news. The proceedings went on as Mr. Finch asked final questions about Wormtail’s involvement in You-Know-Who’s activities and any other crimes he wanted to confess to. Remus hardly paid attention to a word, already well aware of his former friend’s activities.

At last, Wormtail’s head sagged and Fudge called the courtroom to order.

“Mr. Pettigrew, you have been accused of several crimes too numerous to mention,” the minister said, his face gray and sagging, “including the use of the Imperius Curse and murdering twelve Muggles with a blasting curse.” He turned to the court. “In the charges facing Mr. Pettigrew, please raise your hands for a verdict of not guilty.” Not a single hand went up. “A verdict of guilty.” As before, every hand was raised.

“This court of the Wizengamot finds Mr. Pettigrew guilty of all the charges against him,” Fudge declared. A cheer rose up from the crowd.

“Minister Fudge?” Mr. Finch called out over the din. “Regarding Mr. Black?”

The gray complexion of the minister’s skin turned almost pasty-like and Remus couldn’t help but take a little satisfaction out of his discomfort. He cleared his throat and silenced the crowd. “In the matter of Sirius Black’s sentence of life imprisonment in Azkaban for the murder of Peter Pettigrew and twelve Muggles, I propose a clearing of all charges.”

“Seconded,” said Madame Bones, her round monocle glinting.

“All in favor?” Fudge asked. After counting the hands raised, he added. “All against?”

Remus didn’t breathe or move in those few seconds. His entire body froze as he waited for the official verdict to come out of the man’s lips.

“Sirius Black is cleared of all charges.”


	14. The One Where Sirius Butts In

“Hey Potter!” a voice called through the quiet of Harry’s mostly-empty dorm. “Potter, wake up!”

“Whazzit?” Ron half-snorted, blearily sitting up in bed.

A sixth-year prefect stood in the door, arms crossed. “Wake Potter up, will ya? McGonagall’s waiting in the common room for him.”

Confused, the redhead looked over at his best friend who was asleep in bed, dead to the world. The black tousled hair stuck up every which way and the deep even breathing told Ron that Harry wasn’t faking sleep. A knot of concern folded in his belly.

“Harry?” Ron called, climbing out of bed. “Harry!” He pulled the thick quilt away from his friend’s face. Still asleep. “Harry!”

It took several rough shakes on the teen’s shoulder and several shouts of his name before his green eyes fluttered open.

“Ron?” Harry croaked. “What’s going on?”

“You’ve got to wake up, mate,” the redhead said. Worry creased his brow and he sat on the edge of his friend’s bed. “McGonagall’s downstairs waiting for you.”

Harry groaned, slowly sitting up, and grabbed for his glasses. Everything ached and he desperately needed a few more hours of sleep. He yawned widely, rubbing his eyes. When they finally opened fully, he saw Ron’s face—suddenly he felt queasy.

“What?” he asked hurriedly. “Did someone die?”

“What? No!” Ron said with a startled jump. “No, why would you think that?”

“You, your face,” said Harry. “What’s wrong?”

Ron stood, a weak smile coming to his lips. “Nothing, nothing at all. Sorry,” he said, grabbing a jumper to force over his head, “must be a little jumpy still. Weird dream.”

“Okay,” Harry said slowly, getting up. “Well, guess I’ll be going then. McGonagall, you said?"

“Yeah,” said Ron. As his friend hurried out the door and it shut behind him, he sat down and his smile fell. “Yeah.”

 

* * *

 

“Professor?” Harry called concernedly as he entered the Gryffindor common room. Most of the students were down at breakfast, so it was easy to spot his Transfiguration professor in one of the wingback chairs near the fireplace.

“Mr. Potter, good morning,” the woman greeted, standing up. “I apologise for the short notice, but you have a visitor.”

“A visitor?” he repeated. “Who?”

“I believe he would like that to remain a surprise,” McGonagall said, her eyes bright. “If you will take a moment to get dressed, I will take you to him.”

Harry nodded hesitantly, completely dumbfounded as to who could be visiting him at Hogwarts. The last time he had visitors, the Weasleys came to wish him luck for the Third Task.

“Oh, and Mr. Potter?” He turned to her. “You may want to bring along a cloak. It’s quite cold outside.”

Bewildered, the young wizard went back upstairs and threw on whatever clothes he had on hand.

“So what’d McGonagall want?” Ron asked, coming out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around his middle.

Harry tugged a clean set of robes over his head and straightened his glasses. “Dunno,” he said, shrugging. “She says I have a visitor and she’s taking me down to meet him.”

“Did she tell you who it is?”

Snagging his wand from the bedside table, Harry shook his head. “It’s some sort of surprise. Guess I’ll find out.”

Ron smiled and shrugged. “Have fun, then,” he offered.

Harry waved and hurried down to meet McGonagall in the common room. Without preamble, she swept them out of the dorms and down several flights of stairs to her office on the first floor, just off the main staircase.

“He’s inside,” she said with a smile as she opened the door. “I’ll give you two a moment, Potter. Do try to keep my office intact.”

“Professor?” Harry asked, stepping inside. The teen’s jaw dropped when he saw the man pacing a trough in the rug. “Sirius?!”

Before he could breathe, Harry’s godfather swept him up into a bone-crushing hug. It took a mere moment for him to return the embrace.

“Sirius, what are you doing here?” he asked, blinking furiously as Sirius released him. “Not that I’m not glad to see you, but if Umbridge--”

“Harry, I’m free,” Sirius cut him off, bouncing on his toes.

“Right,” he breathed, remembering the headlines from last night. The teen couldn’t help but let out a few laughs at his godfather’s exuberance. “So what’s the first thing you’re going to do,” Harry asked, “now that you are a free man?”

The older man barked a laugh and tossed an arm around Harry’s shoulders. “How about a breakfast at the Three Broomsticks with my favourite godson?” he suggested.

“I’m your only godson,” Harry pointed out, his grin so wide it nearly cracked his face.

Sirius scoffed and tousled Harry’s hair. “You coming, or what?” he teased, heading for the office door.

Feeling better than he had in months, Harry followed Sirius out of his professor’s office and bounced down the staircase to the Entrance Hall. As they walked out the sturdy oak doors into the cool autumn morning, he couldn’t think of a time when he felt more at peace.

His godfather walked with a spring in his step and his eyes twinkled with laughter and mischief. The frost crunched easily under their feet as they crossed the grounds for the main gate. A chill wind blew through their hair, but as Harry’s stood even more on end, Sirius’ fell neatly back on his forehead.

The older man’s hair and beard were stylishly cut and trimmed, and robes he wore were clean and a deep ruby red -- obviously new. For the first time in years, Harry could easily see Sirius’s resemblance to the man in his parent’s wedding photos.

“How’s Lupin and everybody?” Harry asked, sticking his hands in his pockets. His cloak chased away most of the chill, but his fingers were getting cold despite that.

“Just fine,” Sirius said. “I invited him to come along but I think he wanted to spend the morning with Tonks.”

“Tonks?” His eyebrows rose. “What does she have to do with anything?”

A wicked smile lit Sirius’ face. “Oh, didn’t you know? My cousin and best friend have been dancing around each other for months now.”

Harry choked. “Remus _fancies_ Tonks?”

Sirius burst out laughing at Harry’s incredulous tone. The teen pouted at his godfather’s laughter at his expense, which only set the man off on another fit.

“It’s not that funny,” he muttered, crossing his arms defensively. An uncomfortable flush rose to his cheeks.

Recovering, Sirius shook his head and wiped tears from his eyes, mirth still hitching in his breath. “It was,” said the man. “You should have seen your face!” He chuckled.

“Well, I mean, come on! _Remus_ and _Tonks_ ,” Harry pointed out. “I just didn’t expect that, is all.”

“Oh, well, if that’s _all_ ,” Sirius chortled, tossing an arm around Harry’s shoulders.

They were now nearing the outskirts of Hogsmeade, where like his last unauthorised visit to the town, the crowds were thin. The sleepy little hamlet was just waking up, so Sirius and Harry were uninterrupted as they entered the Three Broomsticks.

The few patrons in the pub ignored them as they found a booth in the corner. Madam Rosmerta bustled up to their table, her bouncing curls and rosy cheeks beaming brightly at them.

“Good mornin’ gents,” she greeted. “What can I get for you?”

“We’ll have two breakfasts,” said Sirius, winking handsomely at her, “and two Butterbeers, please.”

She looked to Harry, who nodded in agreement. “Excellent, I will be back with those drinks in a moment.”

As she hurried off to the bar, Sirius relaxed back in his seat. “It’s been ages since I’ve been here,” he said, looking around at the atmosphere, “but it hasn’t changed a bit.” He sat up slightly. “You know, this is where your dad asked me to be your godfather.”

“Really?” Harry smiled. “What happened?”

“Well, your mum had just found out she was pregnant,” Sirius said wistfully, “and your dad was panicking, so we took him out for a few drinks to calm him down. Just the four of us. And he’s sitting over there, in that corner booth,” he gestured to the back corner of the pub, just four tables down from them, “and Remus and Peter go to get the drinks. I’m there with him, listening to moan about how he wasn’t ready and how he’d be a horrible father, when the idiot comes right out and asks me to be godfather.”

Harry watches as the expressions play out on Sirius’ face. The incredulous and pleased look reaches down into his belly and tugs it up to his throat.

“So I tell him he’s mad, because who in their right mind would make _me_ a godfather?” Sirius laughed. “But he just says ‘me, that’s who’.” The man’s eyes started to mist over and his voice cracked. “Said he couldn’t think of anyone better than his brother to watch out for his child.”

Sirius sniffed loudly and cleared his throat. He forced a grin at Harry, the skin around his eyes crinkling. “So I said yes,” he said.

“Wow,” Harry said. He looked back at that table, trying to imagine his father and Sirius sitting there and having that conversation. "He was a bit mad, wasn't he?" he quipped, wanting to fill the heavy silence. The grin on Sirius’s lips turned into watery chuckles as the boy and his godfather filled the quiet pub with their laughter.

"Here ya go, gents," said Madame Rosmerta as she dropped off their drinks. "I'll be back in a mo' with your food."

"'Ta, madame," Sirius cheered as he gripped his mug with fervour. "What'd' ya say, Harry? What shall we toast to?"

Harry cupped his warm drink and thought for just a moment. "Freedom," he said in a low tone. "Let's toast to freedom."

"Hear hear," his godfather returned, his eyes sparkling. "To freedom."

Their mugs clunked and they drank deeply, frothy moustaches adorning their lips. Sirius set it down with a sigh and Harry eyed the nervous quiver of the man's jaw.

"Sirius?" he probed. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing!" the man returned quickly. "Nothing at all. Just... You know your parents made me your godfather."

Harry grinned amusedly. "Yes, I believe we've covered that," he said with a wry twist of his lips, rubbing his sleeve over his mouth.

Sirius rolled his eyes and threw a napkin at Harry's face. "Yeah, cheeky," said the man. "But I _meant_ that they made me your legal guardian, in case they ever... you know." Sirius sat up straighter in his chair. "Since I went to prison, I obviously was deemed unfit and they gave you to your aunt, but now that I've been proven innocent —"

The breath caught in Harry's throat.

"Harry, I'd like to file the papers to become your legal guardian," his godfather said in a rush.

A hazy feeling came over him, like his brain was floating away from his body even though he was still in his seat. Harry couldn't help but wonder if this was all a dream.

"Harry?" Sirius probed, a quiver in his voice. The sudden release and influx of air to Harry's lungs brought immediate clarity to the boy’s mind. "Look, I know it's really late and you're practically all grown and everything, but I'd really like to get the chance to —"

"Sirius," the teen murmured, cutting him off. One hand was gripping the wood of the table so hard, his knuckles turned white. "You — you really want me?" he asked. A pocket of hope was fluttering to life in his chest, ready to go out at the slightest chance of wind.

The man looked incredulously into his godson's eyes. The surprise in those grey orbs turned warm and steady in the next moment. "Yes," he said with a calm surety. Sirius gripped Harry's arm, the only part of him in reach, and repeated his words. "Yes." His smile led the flicker in Harry's chest bloom to a roaring fire. "I've always wanted you, kid."

The fire in his chest seemed to set off several things at once and in turn Harry found himself snivelling back tears while trying to get his throat to un-choke. Sirius came round the other side of the table and pulled him into a side-ways hug, ignoring the obvious sobs coming from the teenager.

For the second time today, Harry felt the warm press of his godfather's chest against him. This time, however, the hug lasted longer as it took him several minutes to stop the tears and get under control again. Sirius gamely rubbed his shoulder the whole time and smiled brightly when Harry pulled back, carefully ignoring the tear tracks and his godson's flaming cheeks.

Harry took the napkin Sirius had thrown at him before and wiped his face, dabbing at his snotty nose and trying not to call attention to his obvious breakdown in the middle of the pub. The other patrons, however, were pointedly putting their attention elsewhere, if they had noticed, and Rosmerta hung back, chatting to a customer in the far corner.

"If you agree," Sirius started, breaking their silence, "then I'll have the papers drawn up this afternoon. It may take a little time for the ministry to process it all, but my solicitor says that we have a good chance. Especially because your aunt is a Muggle and all."

"Yeah, of course I want that," said Harry in one breath. The next, however, brought a pall over his features. "But what about Dumbledore? He said that I was protected at Privet Drive, because of my mum's blood or something —"

Sirius frowned. "I'll speak with him," the man promised. As wrinkles started to form above the boy’s eyes, the man sent him a reassuring smile. "Harry, don't worry. I'll sort it out." He gripped his godson's wrist. "Let me handle this one," he said firmly. "I promise that I'll consult you before we make any decisions."

Harry slowly inclined his head. It wasn't typical of him to let someone else figure out something that had to do with his own life, but for once… maybe it wouldn't be such a bad thing. He could at least give Sirius a chance, especially if the man wanted to be his guardian. "Okay," he said, lifting a shoulder.

"Okay," Sirius repeated, a grin on his lips.

Speaking of giving chances... "Sirius —"

"Yeah, kid?"

Harry bit his lip. It would change everything to tell him. Sirius would be in more danger than ever if he knew, but if he couldn't tell his godfather, who could he tell? Sirius could take care of himself and he was already doing better now that he was out of that house. He could definitely handle this news. Maybe. Probably.

"There's something," he started, trying to work the words past a heavy and unsure tongue," I want to tell you —"

"Here we are, two breakfasts!" Madame Rosmerta interjected, cheerily plopping the plates on their table. Harry jumped and in that moment caught several pairs of eyes and ears peering curiously at their table. "Enjoy!"

"Thanks, Rosie!" Sirius said, with a nod. When she walked away, the man refocused on Harry, his gaze steady and sure. A tinge of uncertainty made them shine worriedly.

When Harry didn't finish his sentence, he probed in an expectant tone. "You wanted to tell me something?"

The teen smiled weakly and shook his head. "Sorry," he said. "It was nothing." Some of the heads turned back to their own meals but there were enough stares to raise the hairs on the back of his neck.

"Okay, if you're sure." If Sirius understood his sudden furtiveness, he didn't make it known. The man shrugged and in an instant the mature look on his godfather's face disappeared in the half moment it took to take in the food. "Look at this breakfast!" he crowed, grabbing his fork. Sirius plunged in, almost swallowing whole as he stuffed his face full of eggs and toast at the same time.

His stomach well-armed from watching Ron eat all these years, Harry grabbed his own utensils in hand. His mouth watered at the smells wafting up from his own plate and he dug in with equal fervour, if with better table manners than his godfather. As the delicious food filled his hungry belly, Sirius smoothly changed the subject, recounting more tales from his misspent youth with Harry's father. Delicate conversations were better off left for safer quarters.

 

* * *

 

"Sirius," an austere voice said, garnering the attention of the younger wizard. Patrons and waiters alike ignored the oddly dressed man as a Notice Me Not charm flashed to cover the corner table. Sirius turned and flashed a bland smile at his former headmaster.

"Dumbledore," he said. "What brings you to London?"

"May I?" The man asked politely, ignoring the question and gestured to the metal chair opposite Sirius. He sat, though the expression on his companion's face indicated he may not be so welcome. "I thought a spot of tea might be just what I needed."

Sirius raised an eyebrow and sipped at his beer. "It's not really that kind of place," he said, gesturing at the Muggle pub to his back. "You may have more luck just down the street."

"Perhaps I may indulge with a ginger beer, then? I've heard they are delightful," Dumbledore said brightly.

The other man leaned forward. "We both know that you're not thirsty," Sirius said, an edge in his tone, "so what is it that you want, exactly?"

"Right to it then, I suppose?" At the flat stare he got in return, Dumbledore sighed. "You have filed papers to become Harry's guardian." It wasn't a question.

"Yep."

" _Why?_ "

Sirius' eyes narrowed. "Not that it's any of your business," he said tightly, "but Harry's my _godson_. After his parents died, he should have come to me. Since that decision was taken out of my hands," his voice turned needle-sharp, "I think it's time we corrected that _clerical error_. Don't you agree, Headmaster?"

"Sirius, think rationally," the man started, his long fingers resting tensely on the arms of his chair. "With all that Harry's gone through, don't you think he should have some stability? Ripping him from the only family he's known..."

"Those _people_ are not his family," Sirius hissed, clenching a fist around his drink and cutting Dumbledore off. "Everyone knows that." He slowly took a swig. "I visited them the other day. Wanted to have a little chat, see? It's easier to file for guardianship if you've got the consent of the child's previous guardians."

The colour drained from the headmaster's face. "They didn't," he breathed.

"They did," said Sirius, finishing his drink quickly. "First they squealed like pigs when they found out who I was. That oaf of a man practically spit in my face, but once I mentioned getting custody of Harry," he let out a short, unamused laugh, "they couldn't bend over fast enough. Petunia signed the papers in fifteen minutes. _Bastards_."

"Sirius, please. It's not _safe--_ _”_

"I'll tell you what's not safe!" Sirius interrupted, slamming his fists down on the table. People nearby jumped but blinked absently as they couldn't visually identify where the sound came from. The ex-convict lowered his voice to a deep growl. "Those animals were not safe. Do you know how they treated him? They had locks on his room and _bars_ on his window! His room was full of trash and broken furniture. Harry doesn't leave a thing of his there during the school year. Did you know _that_?" Sirius's eyes grew flinty. "That house wasn't his home. It was a _prison_."

Dumbledore's voice was grave and his blue eyes were dark and earnest. "It is not comfortable, I know, but the blood wards can protect him. Nothing, not even Voldemort, can touch him if he calls Petunia's house his home! Sirius, we are talking about his _life_!"

"Yes, I realise that, thanks," he said sharply. "In case you forgot, Voldemort took Harry's blood last June in that ritual. I think the blood protection is a little moot, don't you?"

"The wards still hold," Dumbledore said. "Voldemort will not get through them as long as he wishes the boy harm."

Sirius snorted. "Well, that's a relief," he mocked. "We just have to hope that a bunch of wards can distinguish state of mind _before_ it protects Harry from a mass murderer. Excellent."

"The sarcasm is not appreciated, young man," the older man scolded, eyes flashing. "This is a very serious matter. Voldemort will come after Harry the _moment_ his protection is weakened in any way."

"It's like you think I'm an idiot," Sirius muttered to himself, rolling his eyes. "Dumbledore, that protection, while strong, rests on the assumption that Voldemort hasn't already found a way around it. Conveniently enough, I've got a house that's warded and Unplottable. Not to mention _other protections_ ," he said, raising an eyebrow at the headmaster. "Unless you lose your mind and decide to go making friends with unsavoury characters, I can think of one place where Harry will be safe. Guaranteed."

"There's more to it than that--”

"You haven't noticed, have you?" Sirius asked, cutting him off. His grey eyes were probing, sad.

"Noticed what?"

"You've been too busy, I expect, to even talk to him. Harry's noticed, we all have," Sirius said hollowly. "He's upset, you know? He thinks you hate him or something." Dumbledore refused to meet the younger man's eyes, his head dipping in shame. "I'm sure you have your reasons," Sirius' tone dripped with disdain, "but in all that, you haven't even bothered to notice that something's going on with Harry."

Dumbledore's head snapped up. "Is he alright?" he asked sharply.

Sirius shrugged, frowning slightly. "As far as I can tell," he hedged. "He's lost some weight and I don't think he's sleeping well." Sirius bit his lip. "Could be nightmares or maybe it's something else. Dunno. Whatever it is, though, it's bothering him. I think he was going to tell me when I saw him last week, but we were interrupted."

"It's natural for the boy to be troubled after the events of last June," the old man reasoned sagely. "Seeing a classmate die and being tortured would be tough for anyone, but Harry's a strong lad. I'm sure he'll be fine with adequate time to grieve."

Sirius shook his head. "You don't understand at all," he scoffed. "It's more than that. Harry's being secretive, probably even from Ron and Hermione. Something is going on, I know it."

Dumbledore gave him a quelling look. "Then let me handle it, Sirius. If something's really the matter with Harry, then I'll get to the bottom of it."

"Right," Sirius said, raising a sardonic eyebrow. "You'll get Harry to confide in you after ignoring him for months. I'm sure that'll go off splendidly."

"Harry's a sensible young man and I'm sure that once I speak with him, he'll be more willing to be forthcoming."

The younger man barked out a laugh. "You are so completely oblivious," he said, shaking his head. "Harry doesn't trust you anymore. I honestly don't think he trusts anyone under the age of 17, which is probably thanks to those bloody relatives of his, and precisely the reason why I'm filing for guardianship." Sirius leaned forward. "Harry needs someone to look out for him. He needs to know that there is an adult out there who trusts him, wants the best for him and isn't afraid to love him."

Dumbledore jerked, as if he'd been slapped. "You think I don't love him?" he asked hoarsely.

"I think Harry knows that you don't."

Weariness and despair flooded those eyes just a moment before they hardened. "While your heart is in the right place, Sirius, I'm afraid that I cannot approve this guardianship. It's too dangerous--”

Sirius broke out laughing. This wasn't his normal, barking laugh. No, it was tinged with sardonic humour and as the chuckles subsided, a dark and twisted sneer fell on the handsome man's face. "It's not up to you, Dumbledore," he said. "It never was."

The older man froze as Sirius leisurely pulled out his wallet. "It amazes me that you still feel the need to try and get your way," the younger man said, counting out a few bills, "especially when we both know that your word at the Ministry is less than dirt right now." Sirius dropped the money on the table and casually stood up, leaving the silent headmaster staring at him.

"Funnily enough, I have no such problem. If circumstances were different I'd probably have as much say as you, but Fudge is prepared to do just about anything to keep me from slandering the Ministry after the trial. So when I asked for custody of my godson," Sirius shrugged. "Let's just say he expedited the process. Seemed to think it was a good idea to get the Boy-Who-Lived into a protected home with his rightful wizard guardian."

"Sirius," Dumbledore pleaded, getting to his feet.

"The papers have already been filed, headmaster," Sirius said, pulling his wand out with a flick of his wrist, "and Fudge has already assured me that custody will pass to me by this time tomorrow." His steady gaze locked with the old man's. "It's already done."

"You're making a big mistake."

Sirius shook his head. "I made a mistake fourteen years ago," he said regretfully. "Now, I'm fixing it."

 

* * *

 

The morning of the Gryffindor-Slytherin Quidditch match was filled with excitement and a chill in the air as eager students and teachers climbed the stands. Sirius Black straightened his new robes with a flick of his wrist and plopped down between a couple other adults in the teacher’s box. He’d only seen Harry fly once, as a dog in the boy’s third year, but it was different seeing everything as a human. It was all in color, for example.

The wizard munched on some candy he’d picked up at Honeyduke’s on his way in. As he levitated over his seat, he grinned at the man sitting next to him.

“Want some?” he asked, shaking the bag lightly.

The wizard gave him a mild look, complete with raised eyebrow, before turning back to the pitch. Sirius turned away, digging his hand back into the bag, and lightly mocked the look before stuffing his face once more. Wizards really couldn’t enjoy the good things in life anymore.

He had nearly finished half the bag when the stands began to roar with applause. Sirius leaned forward to see the backs of the Gryffindors as they and the Slytherins walked out onto the field. Sirius grinned fiercely and gave a big whoop when his godson strode out, broom in hand, and the name _Potter_ glittered in gold on his back.

The stands quieted slightly as the teams lined up at the center of the pitch and mounted their brooms. Madam Hooch flew in the middle, her hand up, ready to give the signal. Sirius watched in open-mouthed fascination as the chop went down and all the players simultaneously kicked off.

Harry went higher than the rest, shooting up on the exquisite Firebolt -- given to him by his ever-so-awesome godfather -- and started looping gently around the field.

Sirius watched every twist and turn, loop and roll, every charge and stop that his godson made. The boy was born to fly and swam more easily through the air than a mermaid in the sea. The wizard could care less about the game. All he wanted to do was watch his godson fly with that happy smile on his face.

And then, just like that, Harry’s concentration snapped back onto the game and he shot forward faster than Sirius could blink. In under a minute, Harry floated upwards, his fist in the air, wings fluttering from between his fingers. He’d caught the snitch!

The red and gold stands roared with approval and the entire Gryffindor team cheered as they floated to the ground to hug their seeker. Sirius hollered and stamped his feet with the rest, a beaming smile on his face. Then a Bludger slammed into his godson, throwing him off his broom and into the unforgiving, frozen ground of the Quidditch pitch.

Sirius was on his feet and pushing and shoving his way to the stairs as fast as he could scramble. His heart was in his throat, breath caught in his chest and he was finding it very hard to hear past the roaring of his ears. When he broke past the students and began thundering down the stairs, he saw Harry stand up next to one of the girls on his team, the others milling around them. He was all right. Sirius drew in a shaky breath and kept going, determined to hug that kid for scaring the life out of him.

But before Sirius could even make it to edge of the pitch, a fight broke out. His stomach dropped when he saw Harry and one of the Weasley twins break away from the group and lunge straight at the Malfoy kid. Sirius hit the pitch and broke into a dead run, pulling out his wand.

“Harry! Harry, stop!” he hollered, trying to make himself heard over the roaring of the crowd and Harry’s teammates.

Then a flash of light and Harry flew back. He reached the boy just as Madame Hooch started yelling, wand and whistle in hand. Ignoring her, Sirius took in the bloody, beaten Malfoy on the ground and Harry’s red, furious expression, his mind whirling.

“-- straight to your Head of House’s office! Go! _Now!_ ”

Harry and George turned on their heels and marched off, ignoring everyone. Sirius hesitated for half a moment before following. As they walked up the hill to the castle and then to McGonagall’s office, he chewed his lip and nervously ran a hand through his hair. This was it -- his first test as a guardian. Should he lecture Harry? Pat him on the back? Ground him? Tell him never to do it again?

His parents weren’t exactly the model for good parenting -- they’d have cursed him and locked him in his room for Muggle dueling. James’ parents would have taken away his broom for a week -- which never really seemed to make an impression on his friend. And when Harry was a baby and got in trouble, Lily scolded him and took away his toys. Somehow, Sirius doubted that would work for the fifteen-year-old version.

Just as the three of them reached the door, McGonagall showed up. Her furious expression silenced Sirius as easily as it did when he was a teenager and he stood silently in the background just as if he were the one in trouble and it was 1975 again.

She railed into Harry and George and was just hitting her stride when a simpering voice cut in.

“May I help, Professor McGonagall?” asked Dolores Umbridge a sickeningly disgusting voice.

Sirius watched with morbid fascination as McGonagall’s expression grew even more dangerous when Umbridge unfurled her newest decree. He’d heard the Hogwarts teachers ranting about these things in the Order meetings, but as the woman proceeded to read it, his blood began to boil.

“So… I really think I will have to ban these two from playing Quidditch ever again,” she said smugly.

Harry’s face went white and Sirius’ heart reached out to him.

“Ban us?” his godson said faintly. “From playing… ever again?”

“Excuse me, _Professor_ ,” Sirius interjected, not having the heart to see his godson so devastated. Harry’s head snapped around and his eyes widened, noticing him for the first time. “But as Harry’s new guardian, I feel that I should have some say in his punishment. Don’t you agree?” He smiled thinly at her. “I believe the school charter states that while professors and staff of the school can issue punishments for infractions, the parents or guardians of the students have the right to overrule staff decisions in regards to their student. Do I have that right?”

Umbridge’s smile grew tight at the corners and she nodded stiffly. “That is correct, Mr. Black,” she conceded.

“Excellent,” Sirius said cheerily. “Then why don’t I propose this: Harry will serve a week’s worth of detentions and is banned from playing in the next Gryffindor Quidditch match. If a majority of the staff agrees that he has shown a conscious effort to control his temper and behavior by then, he will be reinstated to the Gryffindor Quidditch team and allowed to play in the final game of the season. I believe that’s fair, don’t you?”

While Harry’s expression was still mostly horrified, the colour had returned to his face. McGonagall was trying not to look too smug in the back and Umbridge looked like she’d swallowed a lemon.

“I suppose so, Mr. Black,” she said. “As to his broomsticks, I will want to confiscate it in my office, to make sure there is no infringement of his ban.”

“I understand your sentiments Professor Umbridge,” Sirius said smoothly. “However, flying is not only cathartic but also an excellent form of physical activity. If we are trying to teach Harry _healthy_ ways to deal with his temper and avoid physical confrontations, then I don’t think it would be a good idea to ban him from flying altogether. Perhaps supervised flying time would be an excellent alternative? I’m sure Madame Hooch wouldn’t mind holding onto Harry’s broom and monitoring those sessions.”

“That sounds like a splendid idea, Mr. Black,” McGonagall said approvingly from behind her desk. “Don’t you agree Dolores? Perhaps a controlled environment will help the boys learn how to control themselves better.”

“And,” Sirius added, “it might be a good idea to think about punishing Mr. Malfoy for his unsportsmanlike behavior after losing the match. While he may not have thrown the first punch, his behavior is not commendable either.”

Umbridge’s expression was downright nasty. “I will consider it,” she said, the sweetness gone from her tone. “Thank you for your _input_ , Mr. Black.”

Sirius inclined his head, a smarmy grin on his lips as Umbridge stormed out of the office.

“Well, that went well,” he cheered, looking to his godson, the Weasley boy and McGonagall. “Who wants hot chocolate?”

 

* * *

 

“… and then he took us to the kitchens and the elves gave us hot chocolate,” Harry explained later that evening, shaking his head and grinning. “I think the Dementors might have actually done him in.”

“Well at least you two are only banned for one game,” Alicia said. “I don’t know what we would have done without a Seeker or a Beater for the rest of the year.”

“We only get them back if they can control themselves by the last game,” Angelina pointed out, “we still need a new Seeker and Beater before the next match or we won’t even play in the final, and they can only fly if Madame Hooch supervises practices.”

“It’s unfair, I agree,” said Alicia, “but it’s better than nothing. What did Crabbe and Malfoy get?”

“Malfoy got two days of detention and Crabbe got lines,” Ginny said miserably. “I heard Montague laughing about it at dinner.”

Harry grimaced. “If Sirius hadn’t been there, they would’ve probably gotten off.” He stared miserably at the dark window, where snow was falling. Sirius had left after the hot chocolate and Ron hadn’t come back yet.

“I’m going to bed,” Angelina said, standing up. “Maybe when I wake up tomorrow, this will all be a bad dream.”

Gradually, the rest of them left, leaving only Harry and Hermione by the fire.

“Have you seen Ron?” Hermione asked in a low voice.

 Harry shook his head.

“I think he’s avoiding us,” said Hermione. “Where do you think he --?”

The Fat Lady’s portrait creaked open behind them and Ron tumbled into the common room, pale and shivering.

“Where have you been?” Hermione asked anxiously.

“Walking,” Ron mumbled, his Quidditch robes stiff and dotted with snow.

“You look frozen,” said Hermione. “Come and sit down!”

As Ron warmed up by the fire, he avoided Harry’s gaze. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled at last, looking at his feet.

“What for?” said Harry.

“For thinking I can play Quidditch. I’m going to resign first thing tomorrow.”

Harry snorted. “If you resign,” he said, “there’ll only be four players left on the team for the next game. George and I got banned for the next match.”

“What?” Ron yelped.

Hermione explained the whole thing as Harry stared moodily at the fire. He only looked up when Ron started to blame himself.

“This is all my fault --“

“You didn’t make me punch Malfoy,” said Harry angrily.

“-- if I wasn’t so lousy at Quidditch --“

“-- it’s got nothing to do with that --“

“-- it was that song that wound me up --“

“-- it would’ve wound anyone up --“

“Look, drop it, will you!” Harry burst out. “It’s bad enough without you blaming yourself for everything!” He shook his head. “It’s my fault, anyway. I was the one that lost my temper, I punched Malfoy… I’m the one who let him get to me. We’re just lucky that Sirius was there and kept Umbridge from kicking me off the team for the rest of the year.”

Ron said nothing, miserably staring at the damp hem of his robes. “This is the worst I’ve ever felt in my life.”

Harry grimaced, not answering.

“Well,” said Hermione, her voice trembling slightly. She was standing by the window, having got up when Harry wasn’t looking. “I can think of one thing that might cheer you both up.”

“What, that Sirius is my guardian?” Harry said with a small smile. “We already knew that, remember?”

“Well, yes, that, but that’s not what I meant.” She smiled, turning away from the snow-flecked window. “Hagrid’s back.”

 

* * *

 

They visited Hagrid that night and found out about his mission to visit the giants before Umbridge showed up. After she left, the half-giant unceremoniously shooed them back to the castle and to bed.

The next day, Hermione went back to Hagrid’s to talk to him about his lesson plans while Harry and Ron worked through their massive piles of homework. At breakfast the next morning, the three of them sat in a stupor -- Ron and Harry in homework comas and Hermione in hopelessness.

Then an owl swooped down, dropping a copy of the Daily Prophet on into Ron’s eggs.

“Oi!” Ron yelled, shaking his fist at the bird. “Aim properly, why don’t ya?”

The bird click its beak at him and Hermione paid, rolling her eyes. Ron lifted the paper out of his eggs, gingerly wiping the stain with his napkin.

“So what’s it say Ron?” Harry probed, not looking up from his toast.

The ginger-haired teen unfolded the newspaper and stared at the front page, his face going white. The freckles contrasted sharply with his skin.

“Ron, what is it?” asked Hermione, craning her neck to see.

He turned the paper to show his friends the blazing bold headline and pictures of ten escaped Death Eaters.

“There’s been a breakout at Azkaban,” Ron croaked.


End file.
